


Portrait of a Young Man

by Tokyo_the_Glaive



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 00Q Reverse Bang, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, James Bond Being James Bond, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9292910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tokyo_the_Glaive/pseuds/Tokyo_the_Glaive
Summary: Medium, GraphiteArtist, UnknownQ's first impression of 007: a prick with a pretty face and an appreciation for art. Q never expected to become entangled with the agent, but when an explosion, a date, and a missing agent brought 007 to Q time again and time again, he began to rethink their relationship. Unbeknownst to him, 007 had already set his eyes on Q, and nothing--not even the mysterious Blofeld--could stop him from keeping Q safe.(Or, the one where Bond sketches Q at every available opportunity because he's rapidly falling in love, Q's just trying to get by, and no one's looking where they ought to be.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexisriversong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexisriversong/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Love in a portrait - 00Q](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9323273) by [alexisriversong](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexisriversong/pseuds/alexisriversong). 



> At long last, complete! This story was a labour of love from start to finish. Please feel free to scream at the magnificent artist, alexisriversong, [here](http://alexisriversong.deviantart.com/art/Love-in-a-portrait-00Q-657358528?ga_submit_new=10%253A1484415392) over the art that inspired this work. 
> 
> I'd like to thank castillon02 for the endless work she put into this fic; without her, I can safely say that it wouldn't have been completed at all. I'd also like to thank begnite, a one-woman cheer squad, and sinsofourfathers (twohungryblackbirds) for being an all-around good person. This is for you.

_ Art by alexisriversong, a spectacular artist and a wonderful, wonderful partner. _

* * *

 

Q didn’t like J. M. W. Turner. Admired him, yes; studied him, absolutely; but like? Not so much. Even so, there were few artists who could so masterfully blend colors, who could evoke poignant, powerful emotions using a palette of paints. Turner had the impressive ability to portray the capricious moods of the sea and turn them into something else—something less concrete, something rooted in the hopes and fears of the one looking at it. Q had never been able to create anything like it, though he’d never fancied himself a painter. His ex had tried and failed on numerous occasions. She’d been sure she was bound to revive that great style of art. As far as Q knew, she had become a marketing executive, and Q doubted she had even one passing thought about Romantic landscape paintings.

Q, for his part, thought rather a lot about Romantic landscape paintings, if only because he went to see them regularly. He regularly took advantage of his free time to visit the National Gallery when he could. You could take the art student out of school, but you couldn’t take the school out of the student—or something like that. Q had never stopped thinking like an art student, or a wannabe art critic, never mind his profession.

They overlapped sometimes—art and espionage. Q found beauty in fabricating beautiful, deadly code. He appreciated the apparent simplicity of his technology while reveling in the complex underpainting—the thousands upon thousands of hours of work that went unseen. Only Q and his programmers knew about the trial and error, endless debugging sessions, and the never-ending list of models and variations—all of the labour that went into making operations run like clockwork. Art.

Few saw his profession in a similar light. Boothroyd had understood, before he went up in smoke with so many others when Vauxhall was bombed. M understood, too. She’d found him through art. After his recruitment, Q used art as an acid test. He’d take someone to a gallery—a showing, a museum, wherever there was something to be seen—and see their true colors. It was how he’d befriended Eve. She’d stood before Lorrain’s _Seaport with the Embarkation of the Queen of Sheba_ and declared it to be a work of incredible sadness. Q had never seen that painting in such a way. They’d talked about it for quite some time afterwards.

Now, Q was set to meet another within MI6: James Bond, codename 007. Q had never met a double-0 agent, but he’d heard the rumours. They were ruthless people through and through; they were manipulative, distant, cold, and utterly remorseless. Many outside of MI6 advocated for the abolition of the section if only because of the unsavory quality of the work. They’d use drones or machine guns, but that personal touch of an assassin proved too much for many. Q found that silly, though their other complaint—that MI6 essentially had their own private, specialized set of men and women who could single-handedly overturn every other organization within England—held some water.

Q had read 007’s dossier with no small degree of trepidation. Ex-Navy, nearly retirement age. Double-0s rarely lasted so long. His record demonstrated a blatant disregard for the rules and a unique propensity to blow up any type of situation. M had warned Q that 007 would likely be back to his old ways now that he’d returned to the fold.

007’s last operation had been a near-disaster. He’d been taken down by friendly fire and presumed dead in Istanbul. M had written his obituary; his name was on the wall of those fallen in the line of service. Now, weeks later, he was back from the dead.

An assassin-for-hire in the service of Queen and Country with no respect for rules, physical limitations, or seemingly anything else. That was the man Q was to meet. 

He had just the painting in mind.

* * *

Q set the drop for two in the afternoon in the National Gallery in front of Turner’s _The Fighting Temeraire_. He arrived early, both to admire the paintings and to prepare for the meet. As he walked, he kept a weather eye out for 007. Knowing his history as Q did, he’d likely arrive early, too, for all the good it would do him. He’d never seen Q before. Unless he’d managed to access Q’s files without his knowledge, which was even less likely than the spontaneous partition of air into its constituent parts, he didn’t know Q’s face. Q would have the upper hand.

About quarter to two, Q passed the room in which hung _The Fighting Temeraire_. In retrospect, it wasn’t the best painting to meet in front of. The subject matter fit Q’s needs nicely, but the placement was terrible. It had been moved since Q had last visited. If something went wrong, there were quite a few exits to cover and no easy escape route—not that Q expected any difficulties. He glanced over the room, then did a double-take. There was 007, early, as expected. He hadn’t shaved, which was _not_ expected. All of the photographs Q had seen of the agent depicted him as clean-shaven, and he’d assumed it to be a preference. Perhaps his brush with death had done something to him. He’d soon find out.

Q straightened himself up and came closer, if only to see what 007 would do when approached early by a stranger. He appeared by 007’s shoulder just in time to see something—a sketchbook and a pencil.

Q was starting to like this man.

He sat down beside 007, a little too close for comfort, and sighed heavily. 007 made no move, either to look at him or to leave. For all intents and purposes, he was studying the painting. The sketchbook, Q noticed, had vanished as if it had never been there. Perhaps he’d been mistaken.

“Always makes me feel a little melancholy,” Q said finally. If 007 had heard him, he gave no indication. “A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap.” He sighed again for effect. “The inevitability of time, don’t you think? What do you see?”

The look on 007’s face could only be described as sour. The painting had gotten under his skin, just as Q had expected. Under the double-0 armour, 007 was just like everyone else: terrified of growing old and becoming obsolete. Interesting.

“A bloody big ship,” 007 said, and oh, he had a lovely voice, didn’t he? Deep and sonorous. Q wondered if he’d ever been part of a choir. He’d be a baritone, or maybe a bass. Definitely bass. 007 made to stand and said, “Excuse me.”

“007,” Q offered. 007 froze in place, mid-squat. Q stared resolutely at _The Fighting Temeraire_ as he continued, “I’m your new Quartermaster.”

Slowly, 007 sank back down. Q read disbelief and disapproval in every fibre of his being. “You must be joking,” he said.

Q smiled and said, “Why, because I’m not wearing a lab coat?”

“Because you still have spots.” That stung, but Q could tell—this was 007’s payback for the painting. Hardly as bad as it could have been.

“My complexion is hardly relevant,” Q said, sure the pointedness of the remark would not be lost on 007.

“Well, your competence is.”

“Age is no guarantee of efficiency,” Q quipped. He’d been waiting to pull that one out ever since he’d thought of it. In truth, he’d been hoping to use it on M, but he’d thought better of it before long. It didn’t matter how useful he was: she’d have no qualms dropping him.

“And youth is no guarantee of innovation,” 007 retorted. Q might have known that an agent skilled in international espionage would be able to trade barbs as easily as he breathed.

“I’ll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field,” Q shot back.

“Oh?” 007 asked, and if Q wasn’t mistaken, there was something like mirth in his voice—007 took it as a challenge. “So why do you need me?”

Q tilted his head, considering. “Every now and then a trigger has to be pulled.”

“Or not pulled,” 007 said—an agreement, or as close to one as they’d likely get. “It’s hard to know which in your pajamas.”

Q turned to face 007 and found 007 already looking at him. The man’s eyes were so very, very blue.

“Q,” 007 said.

“007,” Q replied. He extracted a set of papers from his jacket; he’d been carrying them around all morning. He certainly had not practiced pulling them out so that the gesture was smooth and assured. Of course not.

“Ticket to Shanghai,” he said, handing over the first, then, “Documentation and passport.”

007 accepted them without looking at them. “Thank you,” he said.

“And this,” Q continued, handing him a small briefcase. 007 opened the lid to check the contents before Q began to explain, “Walther PPK/S 9mm short. There’s a micro-dermal sensor in the grip. It’s been coded to your palm print so only you can fire it.” Q watched as Bond held the grip, checking that the light turned green to indicate that it was fireable. “Less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement.”

If 007 was impressed—and in all honesty, Q had hoped that he would be—he didn’t show it. Q tried not to be disappointed. He should have expected that a spy would expect top-of-the-line equipment and not gush over it like elementary school children presented with their first learning algorithm.

“And this?” 007 asked.

“Standard issue radio transmitter,” Q said, trying not to feel insulted by 007’s tone. “Activate it and it broadcasts your location.”

“Distress signal,” 007 said. He didn’t keep the derision out of his voice. “And that’s it. A gun and a radio. Not exactly Christmas, is it?”

Q stood and took a deep breath as he did so. 007: interesting person, certainly unlikeable. What a waste of time. 

“Were you expecting an exploding pen?” Q asked when he was quite sure he wasn’t going to make a rude comment. He did, however, put a cruel twist on his smile to say _you’re old, old man_. “We don’t really go in for that anymore.” He waited for the barb to sink in, watching Bond’s face with a mean kind of satisfaction, before continuing, “Good luck out there in the field. And, please, return the equipment in one piece.”

Q spun on his heel and prepared to leave. Before he was out of earshot, though, he heard 007 murmur, “Brave new world.” Q wasn’t sure 007 would survive it and found that he didn’t particularly care one way or another.

* * *

“How did it go?”

Q watched the doors slide shut behind Moneypenny as she approached. Her voice carried beautifully across the floor. Q had to hand it to the architect who’d built the bunker, they’d had an ear for acoustics.

“He’s a bit of a prick, isn’t he?” Q said cheerfully.

“That bad?” Moneypenny asked, closer now. She leaned against his standing desk—a temporary arrangement, Q had been assured. He’d never liked the concept and looked forward to a nice desk chair in the near future.

“Did he not like your painting?”

Q shrugged and looked up from his computer. “I think he got the message,” Q said. “Whether he liked it or not is irrelevant.”

Moneypenny shook her head. “Should have gone with _Saint George and the Dragon_ ,” she said.

“The Uccello painting?” Q asked. “Too early even for him, don’t you think?”

Moneypenny shrugged. “He seems the type to enjoy slaying dragons, don’t you think?”

“He might enjoy it,” Q said, returning his attention to the screen, “but that doesn’t make it his due.”

“You think he’ll fail.”

Q blinked and resolutely did not look at Moneypenny. “I don’t know what he’ll do,” he said, “but if he loses my equipment, he’s a dead man.” Moneypenny laughed, hiding her smile behind one hand. “I’m serious,” he protested.

“I know you are,” Moneypenny responded. “That’s what makes it so funny.”

Q frowned. “I take it you enjoy taking pleasure in my imminent misery,” he said. “Aren’t you here to coerce me onto a plane so that I can suffer in his presence again?”

Moneypenny hummed. “Actually, I came with a suggestion.”

“And what might that be?”

“I go in your place.”

Q did look up at that. “What?” Moneypenny didn’t repeat herself. “You want to go to Shanghai.”

“I hear the destination’s lovely,” Moneypenny said, expression unreadable—or, unreadable to someone who wasn’t Q.

“Oh,” he said, “you want to fuck him.”

Moneypenny scowled. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“You do, though.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“It is when it gets in the way of the job,” Q snapped, unsure why this bothered him as much as it did.

Moneypenny stood up straight. “You think I’m going to compromise the operation?”

“Of course not,” Q said, running a hand through his hair—a nervous tell his ex used to hate, which was part of why it became so perfectly ingrained in his mannerisms. “It’s just that I’m supposed to go. It’s always the Quartermaster who goes.”

Moneypenny shrugged. “Do you really want to spend more time than you have to with that prick?” she asked, tossing Q’s word back at him.

Q frowned. Bond had a nice voice, and he certainly was nice to look at, but he _was_ a prick.

“Not particularly. Go ahead, have some fun,” Q said, returning to his work. “If I get in trouble with M, it’s on you.”

“You’re a peach. I owe you.”

“Bring me back something nice,” Q suggested.

Moneypenny laughed, and Q was sure that if Moneypenny ever did return the favor, it would hardly be tastefully done.

* * *

Q received a text from Moneypenny sometime later—after she’d landed, Q assumed. He’d gone home by then, nestled into bed with only the screen of his laptop for a light until his mobile lit up.

_A skilled prick in both regards_.

Q snorted his tea and choked on it. He checked his shirt to make sure he hadn’t spilled; his _Viva la Pluto!_ shirt was his favourite for sleeping because it was by far the softest.

_Did not need to know_ , he sent back.

_:)_

That a spy would use smiley faces was entirely beyond Q, but he had to hand it to her, Moneypenny knew when and how to be audacious. She couldn’t have been with 007 for three minutes, and she’d already sized him up—in more ways than one.

_You’d like him_.

Q frowned at that.

_I doubt it_.

_You should give him a try_ , Moneypenny suggested. _Watching him flirt is something else_.

_Real ladies man?_ Q shot back. _Don’t think he’d go for me._

_You might be surprised_ , Moneypenny wrote, then: _He’s not smooth at all. It’s hilarious. You have to see this._

Q snorted _again_ at that, then set his mug on his bedside table. Two near-spills was quite enough; it was a wonder he hadn’t ruined his laptop.

_I’ll pass_.

_Like hell. He’ll be coming to see you._

Q wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean—had Moneypenny arranged him a one-night stand? But Moneypenny didn’t elaborate and Q didn’t ask.

* * *

007 returned to London without Moneypenny but with a man named Raoul Silva. M briefed the department heads on the details before 007’s plane touched down. Silva had been responsible for the Vauxhall bombing and the subsequent release of the names of undercover operatives. He would be kept until his plans and motivations were made clear, at which point he would be brought to trial.

Everything was proceeding according to plan until it wasn’t, at which point reality started to resemble a bad action film. Silva escaped, Q helped 007 track him back down, and over a whirlwind series of days, M was dead and 007’s childhood home had gone up in flames. To make matters worse there was an inquisition halfway up Q’s arse about his involvement in the whole thing. He needed a drink or five, but with everything in an uproar, chances were slim.

Or, they were, until 007 stumbled into Q Division looking worse for wear and smelling like a distillery.

“007,” Q greeted. Of all of the people he’d expected to see, 007 was the one he’d been looking forward to the least. It was, Q thought, mostly his fault, yet no one was prying into _his_ history looking for reasons why he would or would not have aided and abetted a criminal. Yes, Q had made a mistake. No, it hadn’t been intentional. He’d been through meeting after meeting after meeting. It seemed that only Mallory believed him.

None of that mattered now, though. Now, 007 looked at him with wild, bloodshot eyes. Q mentally calculated how hard it would be to outrun him. 

“They don’t let you go home?” 007 asked, slurring just enough to set Q’s hair on end.

“Everything’s rather busy at the moment,” Q said by way of answer. There was enough work for him to work six consecutive days at optimum efficiency and _still_ not be done. “You don’t have a home to go to, do you?”

007 rolled his eyes and leaned heavily against Q’s desk—still without a desk chair. He wasn’t likely to get one anytime soon, not when half of MI5 thought that Q had deliberately let an international terrorist loose on British soil, never mind all evidence to the contrary. It was a damned shame. His back was starting to kill him.

“There’s yours,” 007 said.

“Please don’t,” Q said, keeping his voice as mild as he could. If he ran now, his odds of escape were better but still too close to zero. “While my insurance does cover break-ins, I can’t imagine that my cats would be too pleased to see you instead of me.”

“Cats,” 007 mumbled. “Cats like me.”

“That is not permission, and they will not like you. Don’t you have debriefing or some such?”

“Granted clemency by reason of intoxication,” 007 said.

Q couldn’t believe his ears. “You got drunk to avoid the board,” he said. 007 nodded, smiling like a fool. _He’s a prick_ , Q reminded himself. A pretty prick, but a prick nonetheless. “Brilliant. I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

“I could buy you a drink,” 007 offered.

“I’ll bet you say that to all of the ladies,” Q said.

“Only the lovely ones.”

“I’m neither lovely nor a lady, 007,” Q replied. “Now, if you please, some of us have work to do.”

007 looked ready to argue, but then Gareth Mallory was on the Division floor trying to herd 007 up and out, and someone was murmuring something about a funeral.

M’s funeral, Q realized. That was meant to be tomorrow. No wonder 007 was drunk.

“Q,” Mallory called. Q looked up to find Mallory still standing by the doors.

“Sir?” Q asked.

“For the love of God, go home and get some rest. You’re still our Quartermaster expected to show up for work tomorrow, never mind what the board thinks.”

* * *

Q didn’t go home. He slept in his office, ran by his flat to get a change of clothes and to feed his cats, Anna and Aubergine and headed straight back into work. His only real break was for the funeral in the afternoon.

It was a quiet, private affair. Mallory—M, now, Q supposed—was there, as was 007, though he lurked in the shadows like some hungover specter. He might have still been drunk. Moneypenny, Tanner, a few other division heads, and several mild-mannered individuals who Moneypenny assured him seriously were other double-0 agents—all were in attendance. Q didn’t see a single family member.

M read Brooke’s _The Soldier_ to conclude, and 007 slipped away as quietly as he’d come.

* * *

Until Q was absolved of all suspicion, life continued in much the same way. 007 didn’t come down to offer him a drink again. No doubt he was flustered that he’d hit on not just a man but on his boffin of a Quartermaster. Utterly humiliating for a man who exuded _machismo_.

Q did, however, get himself a drink at long last. After the funeral he returned home for the night, exhausted and beat down to nothing. He sat on the floor of his tiny kitchenette, his cats rubbing themselves against his legs in a bid for attention. Q drank straight from a bottle of cheap wine and didn’t stop until it was halfway gone. He didn’t even like to drink—he could never sleep afterwards—and yet here he was, doing his damnedest to forget he was alive.

He failed, and life went on.

* * *

Q’s second operation with 007 was different than his first. For one, it wasn’t Q’s first time working with a double-0. He knew what to expect and how disastrous everything was likely to be. For another, Q couldn’t use Moneypenny as a convenient out. Instead, he was meant to be _intimately involved_ (M’s words). Orders aside, there was no way for Q to get out of it as the operation was about him: 007 would be escorting him to Geneva for a conference on international espionage and budding new technology. Q was posing as a regular programmer with one of Q Division’s older prototypes that Six hadn’t found a good use for; 007 was the muscle. Easy.

That they had good covers with which to observe a civilian populace discuss the merits of constant observation and data-mining hardly set Q’s nerves at ease. He was going to be trapped in Geneva with 007 and hundreds of people below his intelligence level. He couldn’t imagine anything worse.

“Still afraid of flying, Q?’ 007 asked as they approached the plane that would whisk them away. He had a glint in his eye that spoke to Q of nothing good.

“Afraid of—what?” Q asked, flabbergasted.

007 raised an eyebrow even as understanding crossed his face. “Ah. Perhaps not.”

Q was lost. “What?”

“Nothing. After you,” 007 said, gesturing at the short flight of stairs. Nonplussed, Q climbed the stairs. It was a tiny plane, a little four-seater designed just for short trips like these, but it had enough room to stretch out comfortably.

Or, it did, provided you didn’t find yourself seated across from a double-0 agent who possessed no concept of personal space. As the plane took off, Q found his legs tangled in 007’s.

“Do you mind?” Q asked as the engines roared to life.

“Not at all,” 007 replied, offering one of those infernal smiles. He did not move his legs, and pride forbade Q from backing down. They remained that way, ankles brushing one another’s, until they touched down.

In the air, though, there was business yet to be conducted. Q fished a small case out from where he’d set it upon boarding. He pushed it across the table to 007.

“The usual,” Q said, “plus a little something.”

“You shouldn’t have,” 007 said, lifting the latest addition, a watch, out of the case before the Walther. Q watched as he strapped it to his left wrist and admired the face. “What does this do?”

“It tells time,” Q said primly. Bond stared at him. “I’m serious. You need to look the part, and that’ll help. For the record, I was against assigning you any equipment at all given how you treated it last time. Honestly, 007, a Komodo dragon?”

“You should have seen it,” 007 said. “Terrible thing. Enormous jaws.”

“I’m sure,” Q said. “I doubt you’ll find another in Geneva, so don’t push your luck. My budget’s stretched tight enough without your blatant disregard for equipment.”

007 had the audacity to look innocent. “Me?” he asked. “Why, I would never purposefully damage equipment.”

“Of course not. Boothroyd just claimed you did,” Q groused.

007’s face did something odd. The expression was gone as quickly as it came, but Q thought it looked like sorrow. He wondered how long 007 had known Boothroyd. They’d have ventured out like this many times. Had they been friends?

007 offered no response, and Q did not ask.

* * *

When they finally did land—and what a long flight it seemed to be with 007 _staring_ like that—there was little for 007 to do other than skulk around as Q’s personal shadow. By necessity, 007 had to remain within eye- and ear-shot at nearly every moment. If 007 was uncomfortable with the proximity, he didn’t show it. Q, on the other hand, thought it was probably written on his face. He hadn’t lived in close quarters with another person since his uni days, and he hadn’t missed it.

It didn’t help that something had settled between the two of them—a tension of sorts. It hadn’t dissipated since Q mentioned Boothroyd—or, maybe, since they’d boarded the plane. Q wasn’t entirely sure. He’d never been fantastic at reading other people, and 007 was trained to be unreadable. He didn’t have a prayer.

In no small part because Q was bored out of his mind, Q watched 007 just as 007 watched him. He was curious. 007 had a distinctive way of moving. He had the uncanny ability to blend into a room until he wanted to stand out, at which point he might as well have been a lighthouse at night. He could be charming and disarming at one moment, stoic and unmoving the next. 007 changed masks and personas faster than most people blinked. Q found it incredible.

Because he stared, Q eventually saw that sketchbook again. The book came out when Bond realized that they had a lovely view of the Cathédrale Saint-Pierre de Genève. It was, Q granted, a lovely building. That 007 had noticed it shouldn’t have surprised him, yet it did. Every time Q caught 007 looking up at the building, then back down to his book, Q found that he couldn’t quite believe it: 007, sketching. There was something lovely about the idea.

After a long day of talk about tech that couldn’t possibly be developed within the next five years without a sizable chunk of any nation’s budget and an astronomical risk of failure, Q approached 007 about it.

“Lovely bit of architecture, isn’t it?” he asked.

007 had the sketchbook shut and stashed away faster than Q could blink.

“Of course,” he said. “Shall we?”

“Shall we what?” Q asked, confused by the subject change. Apparently 007 didn’t want to discuss his artistic pursuits.

“It’s nearly seven in the evening,” 007 said. “I assumed you had plans to eat.”

Q blushed. He hadn’t given it a single thought. 007 must have read his face, because something in his expression changed—he looked amused, Q thought.

“Good,” 007 said, “because I know just the place.”

* * *

In that way, Q found himself dressed in the best suit he’d packed standing with 007—who seemed as though he’d stepped off of the men’s fashion runway and into reality—in a glittering French restaurant waiting to be seated.

The maître d’hôtel quickly showed them to a seat near the back. Q could see the appeal of the chosen table, which 007 had apparently selected in advance. 007 got to keep his back to a wall with a full view of the room, while Q sat half facing a wall, half facing the room. They were close to the bar, and they each could see the front door. Easy out, easy in, no way to miss an attacker.

Still. Something needed to be said.

“This isn’t exactly the sort of place you take a colleague,” Q said, smiling as carefully as he knew how. He sincerely hoped this wasn’t Moneypenny’s method of “payback”. The last thing Q needed was a pity date with an arse.

“Oh?” 007 asked, all coy, as if he didn’t know damn well what he was doing. “What sort of place is it, then?”

“You know damn well.”

“Enlighten me.”

Q swallowed, eyes darting around. The light was low—sensuous, Q supposed—and what of it there was caught off of crystal chandeliers. Q wondered who was going to be paying for this, and how. It certainly wasn’t going to be coming out of his budget—was it?

“This is the sort of place one takes a prospective partner,” Q said stiffly.

“A date, you mean,” 007 said.

“Quite.”

“And?”

Q sat for a moment, flabbergasted. “And?” he parroted.

007 was regarding him with such a serious look that Q nearly lost heart.

“What seems to be the problem?” 007 asked. He twirled the watch around his wrist. _Careful_ , Q wanted to say. Then again, he hadn’t told 007 about the watch. If he was going to mess with it, Q guessed he’d have to.

“I am—” No sooner had the words come out of his mouth than the waiter appeared bearing a bottle of wine.

“Your wine, sirs,” a waiter said, depositing a bottle on the table. He made a show of opening the bottle, displaying the label and removing the cork with practiced artistry. Only 007 was offered a taste; he swirled his glass, smelled, and sipped. The entire series of gestures might have come from an etiquette manual. 007 then smiled and said, “Yes, very good.” At that, the waiter poured them each a glass and disappeared as quickly as he came, leaving them in silence.

“You were saying?” 007 asked.

“Nothing,” Q said. “Are there menus, or…?”

“Tasting menu,” 007 said. “They were expecting us, though I can get you one if you’d like. You’re not allergic to anything, I assume.”

“I doubt you just assume,” Q said. “You had reservations?”

007’s smile might have looked harmless enough, but Q was steadily beginning to learn better. “You know me well, I see,” 007 said. “At any rate, you’re not nothing.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said you were nothing. That isn’t true at all.”

It took Q a good few moments to understand what 007 was referencing. When he got it, Q blushed.

“That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,” he said. “Those were two separate thoughts.” With the way that 007 was staring at him, he couldn’t quite generate the appropriate amount of force in his words.

“If this is a place you take dates,” 007 said, as if this were brand new information, “I’d like to know your name.”

“I—what? Why?” Q asked.

“It’s rare one goes on dates with someone they don’t know,” 007 said. His eyes glittered. _Dangerous_ , Q reminded himself. It didn’t matter how attractive he looked. _He’s a prick_.

“Not one for the blind dating scene?”

“Introductions are generally made at the start.”

“Are you saying you don’t know me?” Q asked, hoping 007 would drop the subject.

“Not your name.”

“You know enough.”

007 sat back. “I know you appreciate art,” he said. “I know you have two cats, a propensity to work past scheduled hours, and a certain appreciation for neatness when it comes to technology if not anything else. I know a great deal about you, but there’s something to be said for a name.”

Q blinked at him. “You know, it was once a commonly held belief telling someone your name gave them power over you,” he said. 007 remained silent. “Why should I give you that?”

“You know mine,” 007 said, “though, now that I think of it, I’ve never heard you say it.” His eyes flashed. “Would you?”

“Would I…?” Q asked, deliberately playing dumb. This was a bad idea—he shouldn’t have come, he shouldn’t have allowed 007 to drag—no, he hadn’t been dragged; to take him to this restaurant, to dress him up and parade him around as if he were—as if…

“Say it,” 007 said. “My name.”

“Your name,” Q said. 007 waited. “You’re James Bond.”

Something shifted in 007’s posture—something feral. “Again.”

“This is absurd. No.” 007 waited. “James Bond.”

“Again.”

“James Bond. Finished yet?”

007 smiled. “You can learn a lot from how someone says your name,” he said.

Q didn’t get a chance to respond, as a team of waiters and waitresses appeared bearing a number of plates, the beginning of a whirlwind of dishes. 007 did not elaborate on what he’d meant, though the question burned in Q’s mind until the combination of the wine and the food and the sheer implausibility of 007—James Bond—dulled his senses and drowned him in something that seemed suspiciously like pleasure. They spoke of other things, the matter whisked away from the table with the first course.

* * *

That was the only night they ate dinner together. For the remainder of the stay, Q arranged to eat with a handful of other programmers. 007 lurked at a corner table in each shabby restaurant they picked. Q didn’t know what 007’s behavior meant but understood it to be abnormal and not a little chilling. He wanted an escape, and he wanted one now. Still, 007 remained, ever-present, more constant than Q’s own shadow.

When they returned to England, though, he was gone. He didn’t even return the watch, though Q found both Walther and radio on his desk, still in perfect working order. Q tried not to feel disappointed in both himself and 007 that whatever had happened over dinner hadn’t gone farther. Q had made his interest—or lack thereof—quite clear. He’d closed that door, and that was it.

_Probably for the best_ , Q reminded himself. _He is a prick_. 

Besides, even if Q felt awkward around 007 for the remainder of their partnership, it wouldn’t last long. 007 would retire and the cosmic weirdness that seemed to follow him around would leave Q alone. Q repeated that to himself until he thought he might actually believe it. It helped that 007 remained absent. He appeared only once—not for a mission, but for something else entirely.

It was the day 009 came to visit Q Division. Q had met him only once before, in fact the day before: young, dashing, with a shock of red hair that appeared permanently mussed. Q would have placed him in a fashion magazine, not the business of international espionage, but then again, the pair didn’t have to be mutually exclusive. He had his uses, according to Moneypenny. True or not, Q found him nice to look at. Unexpectedly, 009 seemed to find it nice to look right back.

“Quartermaster,” 009 said, leaning across Q’s desk in what was unmistakably an inviting pose. “So good to see you again.”

“009,” Q said, maintaining a neutral expression even as his mind screamed at the attractive picture splayed before him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, this and that,” 009 said, swiping at an imperceptible spec of dust. “Heard I’m to be shipped out.” He looked at Q with a heated expression and half-lidded eyes.

“Really,” Q said, mouth dry. He played along even though he knew full well that 009 had no such mission lined up. “I wasn’t told.”

009 pouted. He looked less contrite and more as though he was considering stealing a kiss. “Truly?” he asked. “Well, maybe it hasn’t come through yet.”

The ruse was transparent—Q always received advanced notice to gather the kits—but Q found himself willing to buy into it. Willing, until the doors to the floor opened to reveal none other than 007—and a sour-looking 007, too.

“Shamelessly flirting again?” 007 asked as he approached. “And here I thought you’d given it up after what happened in Montréal.”

009 turned, an ugly scowl crossing his face as he straightened up. “Bond,” he said, voice flat. Gone was that lilting cadence with which he’d spoken before, replaced by something else. _Bitterness_ , Q realized. 009 was bitter. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Well,” 007 said, “I heard you were roaming the halls soliciting attention from the unsuspecting.”

“I never.”

“M wants you upstairs,” 007 said. “Now.”

009 glared, then turned back to Q. “Next time, then,” he said.

Q couldn’t resist a barb: “Perhaps you could ask him about that mission. I certainly didn’t get a report.”

009’s expression didn’t change insofar as Q could see, but he said, “I’ll do that,” with such a dull tone that Q almost laughed. He’d known that there was artifice, but such an elaborate ruse was unnecessary—wasn’t it?

No sooner than 009 had disappeared than 007 said, “He wanted to shag you.”

Q looked at 007 and found the agent staring straight back at him.

“And?” Q asked, curious.

“And?”

“What’s it to you? If I want to _fuck_ someone or vice versa,” he said, emphasizing the word and watching 007’s face for his reaction, “I’ll handle it. It’s none of your business.”

007’s face _did_ shift—he frowned, however subtly. “He’s a dangerous sort,” 007 said. “Besides, he’s unreliable. If you’re going to break the fraternization regulations, I suggest you pick someone better.”

“Worried about my reputation or my job?” Q asked. When 007 didn’t answer, Q asked, “Why are you here? 009 claimed to have an operation in the wings. I don’t suppose you’re going to say the same.”

“No,” 007 said. “I was just passing by.”

“Not sure if you noticed, but we are down in the basement levels,” Q said. “Where exactly were you going?”

007 smiled—disingenuously, to be sure. “Out, for the moment. Do be careful, Q.”

That was the last Q saw of 007 until Rome.

* * *

007 wasn’t meant to be in Rome. He hadn’t been assigned, wasn’t involved, and Q hadn’t given him the slightest thought.

Really.

Rome came a few months after 009’s unsolicited solicitation. Q had chosen the Fontana di Trevi as the drop site. A lovely piece of art, it also promised to be crowded in spite of the cold, blustery weather. No one would look twice at Q, or Agent Scovell. Easy in, easy out.

Scovell had yet to show. Q had worked with Scovell before, and he’d never been tardy. He was a stickler for punctuality, something that had Q nervous about his absence. He scanned the plaza regularly, half-convinced he’d missed Scovell somewhere in the throng.

Q hadn’t missed the obvious, though: directly across the plaza stood Bond—007. Just when 007 had become Bond in Q’s mind remained a mystery, though only because he refused to think too hard about it. That night, in Geneva, and after…

Q swallowed as he waited by the fountain. Whatever Bond was doing, it wasn’t any of Q’s business. He may very well have been on holiday. That he was present didn’t have to be a terrible omen. Because he couldn’t keep the confusion and horror off of his face, Q forced himself to look anywhere but at Bond. He leaned against the railing that prevented people from stealing coins, checking his mobile and scanning the vicinity. No sign of Scovell. If he didn’t show up soon, Q thought he might find himself a café and text him about the new drop site. It was _cold_.

That night in Geneva. Q had to shut his eyes. It had replayed so many damn times in his mind—the food, the drink, the conversation. The wine had smoothed out the rough edges after the rocky start. Bond had a terrible sense of humour, Q had learned. He doubted that Bond knew about half of the subjects he professed to, but he lied so effortlessly and so glamorously that Q didn’t bother checking the veracity of his statements. It was part of the double-0 charm, Q supposed. They were killers, but a great many of them were masters of seduction. Given Moneypenny’s suggestive remarks following her return from Shanghai, Q had already known. He hadn’t really needed a practical demonstration.

The longer Bond had been away, the more Q thought about it, though he tried valiantly not to. He’d never been good at telling when—if—someone was flirting with him, but it had certainly seemed that Bond had been trying. Perhaps it was a pity date after all, orchestrated by Moneypenny. If so, Q was going to kill her because he couldn’t so much as _think_ about Bond without going red in the ears, particularly after he’d driven away 009 so aggressively.

Q swallowed again and wished he’d brought something other than his mobile to fiddle with. Waiting was quickly becoming tortuous with Bond nearby. Though he knew it wasn’t the case, Q couldn’t lose the notion that Bond was staring at _him_. 

_Maybe he is_ , a traitorous part of his mind said, and instinctively Q looked straight up and at Bond. There he was—and there was that little sketchbook. Bond made a few lines, no doubt tracing the lovely swirls in the stone, checked the statue again, then returned to his drawing. Q had to avert his eyes. No one had a right to look that good. Q certainly had never looked so poised when sketching. It was downright criminal.

Q checked the time on his mobile. Three after; Scovell was late. Q took a deep breath and switched his weight from one leg to the other. Should he run? Was Bond’s presence meant to warn him away? Had something gone wrong? Surely Bond would have told him, or caught his attention somehow. Q took another breath and willed himself into stillness. Until he received other orders, or understood that someone had made him out, he would remain. If Scovell showed, he would need his equipment. The operation had to come first.

Minutes ticked by; Q opened and closed apps almost at random just to appear to have something to do. He startled himself by opening one that played music, nearly jumping in shock at the sudden sound before he closed it just as quickly. None of that. He was nearly resigned to faking a phone call—or calling HQ to see what had gone wrong _this time_ and how fast he needed to run—when Bond pocketed his sketchbook and approached the fountain. This was it.

“What’s wrong?” Q asked immediately, speaking as low as he could.

“Change of dispatch,” Bond murmured. “Scovell’s dead.” Q forgot to breathe for a second. They came close together, Bond looming over Q like some sort of overbearing companion. He stole Scovell’s kit from Q’s fingers.

“Awfully public place for something like this, don’t you think?” Bond said, speaking as if he hadn’t just given a pronouncement of death.

“What happened?” Q asked, but Bond pinched him. _Not now_. He felt cold, this time in a very different way. “Fine. Have it your way. I like it here, if you must know.”

“It is lovely,” Bond said, looking at the fountain.

“Were you drawing it?” Q asked, going for some degree of normalcy, but Bond was moving away—not so quickly as to be suspicious, but fast enough that it was clear he wasn’t meant to be followed.

Q shoved his hands in his pockets and went off in a different direction.

Two minutes later, from Moneypenny: _Scovell’s down. 007’s en route._

_Hell of a delay,_ Q shot back.

_What?_

_B’s already been here, told me about S. He’s got the kit._

There was a pause, then: _Good. Plane in 70 m._

Q could read between the lines, though, for all the good it did him: Bond had hesitated to report Scovell’s death. Something had gone terribly wrong, Scovell had died, and Bond, rather than call it in, had gone to get Q first. He flagged a cab for the airport, his mind awash in possibilities.

* * *

There was nothing beautiful about Vauxhall. Q spent hours analyzing the interior architecture to try to find something worthwhile in the style and came up empty-handed. Vauxhall was ugly, just like their work.

The interrogation rooms were worse. It didn’t help that it was Moneypenny sitting across from him and not some agent he didn’t know from Adam, or that M was probably sitting behind the glass, surely aware that whatever had happened was far from Q’s fault.

“Sorry about this,” Moneypenny said. She folded her arms on the table, her smile genuinely sorry. “It’s just something of a surprise that you knew of Scovell’s death before we did.”

“I told you before,” Q said. “I waited for Scovell to show and noticed Bond instead. I didn’t approach, waiting for any missive from you.”

“But none came,” Moneypenny said. “We didn’t make contact until I spoke with you.”

“After Bond had left,” Q confirmed. “Bond came up to me, told me Scovell had died. He took the kit and left shortly after.”

“Did he say anything else?” Moneypenny asked. “Did you notice anything?”

Q frowned, thinking back. He had a better mind for inanimate objects than live ones; Bond was more of a smudge in his memory than a photograph.

“He had a sketchbook,” Q said finally. “He was drawing the fountain.”

“Drawing?”

“Yes. I’ve seen him with it before,” Q said. “He wasn’t in any hurry. He made me wait quite some time before he approached. He didn’t use a mobile or anything else, only the sketchbook.”

Moneypenny leaned back. “Did you see what he was working on?”

“I assumed it was the fountain,” Q said, “but I didn’t see it. Could have been anything.”

With a sigh, Moneypenny leaned back. “You’ve a right to know,” she said, “that Bond hasn’t checked in since you arrived.”

Q tilted his head. “Is that strange?” he asked. “He often disappears.”

Moneypenny leaned back forward. Open, earnest body language. Q wasn’t sure whether to believe it or not. “He does,” she admitted, “but we haven’t been able to locate Scovell’s body, either.”

Q froze in his seat. “You think…?”

Moneypenny grimaced. “It’s entirely possible, if improbable,” she admitted. “Bond’s always been loyal.” Her phone buzzed. She checked it before smiling and standing. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Done?” Q asked, standing as well.

Moneypenny opened the door. Outside, a man in a grey suit stood glaring at M, who offered Q a smile.

“So sorry,” M said. “Just a formality. Let’s continue this in my office, shall we?”

Q looked at the man in the grey suit. He glared at M and Moneypenny in turn, obviously displeased with the turn of events. Moneypenny stepped between him and Q as if to shield him, arms folded as she glared right back.

“Quite,” Q said.

* * *

“Rufus Sadler,” M said, the door to his office closed securely and the man in the grey suit long gone, “is an arse.” Q arched an eyebrow. M went around the his desk to sink into his chair. He exchanged a look with Moneypenny who took one of the chairs before the desk. Reluctantly, Q took the other.

“Rufus Sadler?” he inquired, however perfunctorily. He knew that M would tell him soon enough.

“He’s MI5, and the one responsible for that little production downstairs,” M said, rubbing his forehead. “He mired me in paperwork and didn’t inform me that he intended to interrogate one of my best. There’s no accusation against you.”

“Good,” Q said. “What’s going on?”

“We know about as much as you do,” Moneypenny said. “There’s still no word on Scovell’s body.”

“No contact from Bond,” M added. To Q, he said, “We need you to find him.”

“Of course,” Q said. “It shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll start mining surveillance data.”

M shook his head. “Young people,” he muttered. Moneypenny chuckled, and M glared at her. “Miss Moneypenny, please.”

Moneypenny grinned, then said, “We think Bond may be willing to come out of the woodwork to talk to you.”

“Me?” Q asked. “I don’t follow. He doesn’t need to _talk_ to me.”

“I’m sending you both to Beijing,” M said firmly.

Q asked, “What?” at the same time Moneypenny asked, “Me?”

“Yes, both of you,” M said. “Aside from the double-0 section, you’re the two who know him best.”

“Beijing,” Q said. “As in, the city.”

“Yes.”

“I thought you wanted me to track him down.”

“I do.”

“But you know he’s in Beijing,” Q said. “Or are we going on a holiday?”

M frowned. “Don’t be glib,” he said, “it might suit you but it’s hardly appropriate. As you know, Scovell was meant to be making contact with an art thief we suspect may be smuggling information.”

“She was expected to hit the Museo Nazionale dell'Alto Medioevo and Scovell was to make contact afterwards,” Moneypenny said. “Only, the museum wasn’t robbed.”

Q turned to M, confused. “It seems she knew,” M said. “Chatter says she’s heading to Beijing to scope a gallery opening instead—artist by the name of Kagero. Up and coming on the Japanese scene.”

“She knew,” Q repeated, mumbling. What could have tipped her off? “You think Bond will follow?”

“If he hasn’t caught her already, assuming that’s what he intends to do,” M said. “You go just to make sure.”

Q took a deep breath, then let it out. He wasn’t sure what the implication was. “You don’t think he’s really gone rogue, do you?” he asked.

M’s expression was flat. “I understand Bond well,” he admitted. “I think it’s just possible.”

* * *

“What do you think of this?” Moneypenny asked. They’d been on the plane for an awkward, silent ten minutes. They each kept to themselves and looked anywhere but at each other.

“What?” Q asked.

Moneypenny shrugged and made a vague motion with her hands. “This,” she said. “You, me, Bond, Scovell.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Q admitted. “None of the possibilities look good.”

“Possibilities, plural?”

Q hesitated, then asked, “Why was Bond in Rome?” Moneypenny didn’t answer. “He didn’t have an operation.”

“No,” Moneypenny said slowly.

“He came with a purpose.”

“Maybe he was on vacation and happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Moneypenny suggested.

“He knew where the drop was,” Q said.

“He also found Scovell dead.”

“If he was dead, how did he find the drop site?” The words fell from Q’s lips like acid.

When Moneypenny spoke, she was just as hesitant as Q had been. “You think Scovell was still alive when Bond got to him.”

Q found he couldn’t look at Moneypenny anymore. “I don’t know what to think,” he repeated. He’d liked Scovell, and Bond was growing on him, and now one was dead and one was missing. Moneypenny made no further comment, and they resolutely said not a word for hours and hours until they landed.

* * *

The exhibit in Beijing was packed. Most of the crowd was composed of socialites—people out in public specifically to see and be seen, and nothing more. They wore expensive suits and glittering dresses; they drank sparkling wines from fluted crystal stemware and talked in intimate circles about absolutely nothing. They were vapid people who held Q’s attention for no more than a second each.

The others, though—the others were interesting.

A handful of art critics had attended the opening. The standard fare, they dressed variously in shabby to presentable suits and ties, but to a person they scribbled furiously in tiny books. Q had never determined why those in the art business did such a thing when he knew from experience that it was terribly uncomfortable.

Other than the critics, there were a few individuals Q strongly suspected to be eminently wealthy individuals who hoped to pass merely as socialites—people who couldn’t afford to mingle with others because their fortunes outstripped those of everyone around them to an embarrassing degree. Nothing except their clothes—tailored, neat, precise—and their lack of distinctive jewelry set them apart from the rest.

The rest were mafia.

“Enjoying the view?” Moneypenny asked, a glittering column of beauty beside him. She looked as though she belonged; Q did not. He hadn’t been able to tame his hair, and he never looked confident enough for occasions like this. He sorely wished to disappear into the floor, but Moneypenny had held onto him through the doorway and led him through the enormous gallery.

“Immensely,” Q lied. He stood before a painting  that strongly resembled an inverted world—the lights and the darks seemed to be switched at every turn. There was a river with fish in it, but the fish looked to be drowning rather than swimming contentedly. Trees grew around the banks, and their long, mostly-barren arms appeared ominous and threatening. The painting, just like the rest of the exhibition, was by the Japanese artist listed only as Kagero. The title translated into English was, ironically enough, _A Pleasant Stream_.

“And here I thought you only liked the Romantics,” Moneypenny said.

“I didn’t say that I _liked_ this style,” Q said, “only that I was enjoying myself.” Q allowed his eyes to follow the thin brush strokes—say what he would about the subject matter, the manner in which the painting was rendered was truly remarkable. “I don’t suppose you’ve looked around.”

“We’ve been made.”

Q sighed. “ _You’ve_ been made,” he said.

“Actually, she has her sights set on you,” Moneypenny said. “She’s coming this way now.”

“You’re with me,” Q said. “What could—” But Moneypenny was gone, disappearing through the throngs effortlessly. Q had never worn high heels himself, but the way she managed to glide in them seemed downright unearthly. He couldn’t dwell on it for long, though; he bristled as he considered how he’d been abandoned to God knew what. Moneypenny hadn’t seemed concerned about whoever was coming. If he’d needed to run, she would have said something; evidently, he was meant to engage. Who, though?

“I see you’ve taken a liking to this one.”

Q swallowed and turned around to see who had “made” him. A woman—nearly of a height with him, but only in the highest spike heels he’d ever seen—stood with her arms folded. Her lips were painted red, and her dress might have been painted on. Q had the faintest sense that she would eat him alive for fun without bothering to spit out the bones.

“I’ll admit, it’s not precisely to my tastes,” Q said. His Mandarin was far from spectacular, but he could hold a conversation, albeit haltingly.

The woman smiled. “I see,” she said. “Not a fan of my work, I presume?”

“You are Kagero?” Q asked, surprised. He’d known that she would be there somewhere, but he hadn’t actually expected to speak to her. Evidently, Moneypenny had recognized her. Q would give her an earful about properly _warning_ someone the next he saw her.

The woman—Kagero—laughed. “Forgive me; I should have introduced myself before asking your opinion on my work,” she said.

Q took a deep breath. “That is, it’s wonderfully done.”

Kagero nodded, and Q followed suit. “Thank you,” she said. Her eyes moved to the painting. “I understand my style to be disconcerting to many. There are few who see the world as I do.”

“I take it this is how you see it?” Q asked.

“Indeed,” Kagero said. “There is danger in everything, even a pleasant stream.” Q swallowed, suddenly wishing for the security of a trained agent by his side. “And you?”

“Excuse me?” Q asked, willing his voice not to squeak.

“How do you see the world?” Kagero asked. She trained her eyes on him, watching him with such intensity that Q thought he might combust.

“As something full of possibility,” Q said, working hard to make the words coherent. “Dangerous, yes, but beautiful. A great monstrosity.”

Kagero smiled again. She stepped closer, and Q braced himself.

“I like you,” she said. “I’m across the street, top floor. Call ahead.”

Just like that, Q had a card with a number printed on it in silver letters on a black background and lipstick residue on his cheek.

“She seemed friendly.”

Q flinched at the sound of Moneypenny’s voice.

“You—where did you go?!” he demanded, keeping his voice as low as possible.

“Doesn’t matter. That’s our thief.”

“Kagero?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice down. He watched her from across the room. She accepted a flute of something as she spoke with an old woman with a gnarled cane. Neither seemed particularly happy. “She’s going to rob her own gallery.”

“Her own…?” Moneypenny asked. She glanced at the paintings, then back at Q. “She can’t be the artist. She’s an art _thief_.”

“She’s the artist,” Q said.

“She told you that?”

“I’m sure,” he said. Moneypenny stared. “She wants me to meet her across this street this evening. Top floor. She gave me this.” Moneypenny made to snatch the card out of Q’s hand, but he snagged it back. “Not here,” he said. “Too many eyes. Let’s walk.”

They did, arm in arm, past morbid and grotesque depictions of the world at large. Just next to _A Pleasant Stream_ was _A Summer’s Day_ , an enormous oil canvas that looked a little like the sun had exploded and the earth was burning. Next to that was _A Boy and His Cat_ ; Q could identify neither a boy nor a cat, though he thought he could almost make out a tree and possibly an orangutang.

“Dismal,” Moneypenny said. Q agreed. “Are you going to meet her?”

“If she’s the one we’re after, do I have a choice?” he asked. “She’ll be expecting me, and only me.”

Moneypenny gripped his elbow. “I don’t like it,” she said.

“I didn’t say I did, only that it’s a requirement. If she’s here, it means Bond failed to grab her in Rome.”

“I haven’t seen him,” Moneypenny said. “You?”

“No,” Q confirmed. He took out his mobile and put Kagero’s number into it.

“Already?” Moneypenny asked. “I’d give it an hour. She’s on her way out now.” Indeed, Kagero was at the top of the stairs down and out to the street below, steadying the old woman with the cane.

“You keep the card,” he said. “I only need the number.” Moneypenny accepted it surreptitiously, hiding the movement in the folds of her skirts.

“Put the mobile away,” Moneypenny said. Q immediately complied. “Four people staring our way.”

“Damn,” Q said. He risked a glance around the room. Two of them were critics and therefore harmless; the other two were _not_.

“Black suit, green vest,” Q said. “Blue suit, no vest.”

“I see them,” Moneypenny said, looking intently at _A Boy and His Cat_. “I’ll keep them off of you.” She threaded her arm through Q’s. “It’ll be fine.”

“I hate this,” Q groused.

“I know. We’ll get through it.”

Q swallowed, risking one more look at the two he was worried about. They were still staring. He tore his gaze away as if burned.

“Forty-five minutes,” he said. Moneypenny squeezed his arm.

* * *

Time passed with excruciating slowness as if to spite Q. He remained jittery, convinced he was about to die. Moneypenny, however, remained calm. She laughed and joked with men and women they came across, drawing Q into conversations to make them look less obvious. People came and went, threading through the darkened rooms and staring at the macabre paintings.

When it was time, Moneypenny escorted Q to the door.

“Here,” she murmured. She made a show of rearranging Q’s tie as she affixed her comm line to it. Q dropped his own in her purse.

“Thank you, darling,” he said. They kissed, chaste and light, and then Q was in the street with a murmured _be careful_ from Moneypenny.

Right. As if that would help.

Q felt like a live wire, exposed and volatile as he crossed the street. He was no field agent. He was trained, and in theory he knew his way around a fight, but theory was just that. If push came to shove, he had no idea what would happen. His only practical field skills were in sharpshooting, and that only from a distance. If anything went wrong coming up, he’d be too close. He’d need Moneypenny to save him.

Swallowing, he rang Kagero’s number from the lobby of the building. It wasn’t a hotel ashe’d expected but instead what appeared to be an office building. Someone picked up and immediately disconnected the call. Before Q had time to wonder about it, security appeared at Q’s side, grasping him by the elbow. 

“Wait,” Q said, struggling. The guards ignored him. “Wait, I’m here to visit someone.”

They manhandled Q into the lift and hit the button for the top floor. Q swallowed and shut his mouth. They already knew.

When the lift stopped, he found himself in a corridor lined with paintings. He recognized a few of them—stolen works of art. _Kagero’s loot_. Security remained in the lift, and Q got out, sparing one look behind him. The guards remained impassive as the doors closed, leaving Q alone.

“Right,” he said. Right. He walked slowly down to the end of the corridor, where there was a single, unmarked door. After a moment’s hesitation, he knocked.

“One second,” a voice—undeniably Kagero’s—came from the opposite side. Q straightened, and the door swung open. There was Kagero standing in the middle of a plush sitting area, and off to one side was none other than James Bond looking unabashedly pleased with himself.

“Come in,” Kagero said, all but pulling him inside. Q did his best not to stumble across the threshold as the door fell shut behind him. He couldn’t help but stare. “I was hoping you’d come sooner rather than later. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Q swallowed. “What is this?” he asked, staring at Bond. He could hardly wrap his mouth around the Mandarin.

Kagero glanced between the two of them. “James says you’re the best in the business,” she said. “You didn’t think this was something else, did you? James told me you wouldn’t be interested in someone like me. We do have business to attend to, but if he was wrong…”

“No,” Q said quickly, blushing furiously, “but this—he—”

“I didn’t tell him in advance,” Bond said smoothly. He came to Kagero’s side, one of his hands spanning the small of her back. She leaned in toward him, a contented smile crossing her face. “He’ll help.”

“ _He_ won’t be doing anything until you explain what in seven hells you’re doing here,” Q snapped.

“Is Eve still in the gallery?” Bond asked. Q pursed his lips. “I was just going to tell her that I intend to borrow you for a bit.” Again, Q made no response. Bond sighed. “You don’t trust me.”

“Where is Agent Scovell?” Q asked.

“Dead. Where is Eve?”

“Where’s his body?” Q asked. “Who killed him?”

Bond’s eyes flashed. “Q,” he started.

Q took a step back.

“Enough,” Kagero said, standing between them. To James, she said, “You say you trust this Q?”

“With my life,” Bond said seriously.

“Good,” Kagero said. “Q, is it? Sit down. Permit me to explain.” Q stared at Bond. “Will you let me?”

Q’s options were limited. Assuming he outran Bond—unlikely—no doubt security would stop him from getting far. Even if he managed to elude them all, he’d have to find Moneypenny without getting himself into further trouble. Probability of success: too low to consider nonzero.

Q sat in the chair closest to the door.

“I will start from the beginning,” Kagero said, folding her hands in her lap in the opposite chair. “Your MI6 believes I have stolen information. I have not. I am no thief.” 

Q struggled to keep a straight face. He glanced once at Bond, only to find him on his mobile, back turned to the pair of him. So much for solidarity.

“I was approached at my first opening a few years ago,” Kagero continued, “by a man who offered me everything.”

“In exchange for what?” Q asked.

Kagero’s smile was sad. “He would fund my openings and ensure that I received support from the artistic community,” she said, “and in exchange, I would oversee the theft of a number of paintings.”

“So you are a thief.”

Kagero glowered back at Q. “No,” she insisted. “There were others—underlings. They did it. I chose the paintings based on his tastes.”

“His?” Q asked.

Kagero sat back, uncrossed her legs, and recrossed them in the other order. “The one who hired me,” she said. “He calls himself Blofeld.”

“Blofeld,” Q repeated. He glanced again at Bond even as he ran over his mental register of wanted and notable persons of interested. “Never heard of him.”

“Neither had James,” Kagero said, “and neither had I until he contacted me. He is eminently wealthy.”

“With all due respect, what does any of this have to do with anything?” Q asked.

“Everything,” Kagero said sternly. “Listen. I was told that I would be having a short show in Rome. My contact was named as a Robert Scovell. I was told that he would rob the museum while I held my opening. It would have been the first time the two events coincided, and I was ill at ease. I was to meet Scovell, and,” Kagero said, breaking off to glance at Bond. “I did. Or, I tried to.”

“Wait a second,” Q said, “hold on. You’re telling me that before Scovell was meant to meet with me—to pick up the equipment _to catch you_ , he met with you.”

“I was meant to meet with him,” Kagero corrected. “This one had other plans.”

Bond approached. “Is that my cue?” he asked. He smiled at Q; Q didn’t smile back. “This operation was intended to go to 005. It was reassigned at the last minute and Scovell grabbed the operation.”

“That’s absurd,” Q replied. “Scovell was a field agent, not your division.”

“He was double-0 track,” Bond shot back. “002 vetted him. This was meant to be his first kill mission.”

“You know this how?” Q pressed. “Bond, what have you been up to?”

Bond didn’t answer. “I tracked down Scovell in Rome. He tried to kill me, so I killed him instead. Found this on him.” He tossed Q a flash drive. Even without opening the files, Q had a feeling he already knew what was on it.

“Why come here?” Q demanded, fingering the drive.

“To keep up the illusion of normalcy,” Kagero replied. “I was expected here. Should I not have shown, consequences would have been severe.”

Q sighed and rubbed his eyes from under his glasses. “This is insane,” he said.

“On the contrary, this is an opportunity,” Bond said. He still hadn’t dropped that insufferable smile. “We have the perfect opening.”

Q glanced at the flash drive, then to Kagero, then to Bond. “You want to catch the one who turned Scovell—Blofeld.”

“I’m meant to meet with Blofeld tomorrow morning,” Kagero said. “No doubt I was meant to have that—” she nodded at the flash drive, “—and the stolen art.”

“You were meant to be dead,” Q corrected. Kagero looked away. “He was meant to take you out, pick up the kit, idle around, and report a mission success.”

“We’re going to set up the drop as if it were business as usual,” Bond said, returning to look out the windows. “She goes out, Eve and I take Blofeld and whoever he’s brought with him, and you set about working on that drive.”

“Did you hear me?” Q asked. “The odds that Blofeld intended to be here are impossibly low. _Kagero was meant to be dead_. Assuming any part of this fairy tale is true, everything’s already gone off the rails.”

Bond’s mobile rang, and he frowned down at it as he answered.

“Eve,” he said, “how nice to hear from you.” Eve said something, and Bond’s eyebrows lifted considerably. He walked to the door of the suite, the mobile still at his ear, and opened it.

There was Eve, feet spread shoulder-width apart, an uncocked revolver in her hands.

“Q, are you all right?” she asked, backing Bond into the room. Kagero stood, shocked.

“Quite fine, thank you,” Q said. “Took you long enough I thought you might not be listening.”

“Q,” Bond said—a warning.

“Hands where I can see them,” Eve ordered. Bond did as told, a wounded look in his eyes. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this here and now.”

“I already told him—”

“I heard,” Moneypenny snapped. “That’s not good enough. How did you know to target Scovell?” Bond remained resolutely silent. “I’ve shot you once on accident, James. Don’t make me do it intentionally.”

Bond pursed his lips. “M.”

“M?” Moneypenny asked. “M sent _us_ , not you.”

“Not him,” Bond said, scowling.

“You mean Mansfield,” Q said. “She’s dead, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“She left a tape,” Bond said. Q arched an eyebrow. “She believed that Scovell had been reporting to someone outside of Six.”

“And she didn’t act on it because…?” Moneypenny asked, trailing off for effect. “Where is this tape?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Bond said. Q’s ears rang, and he closed his eyes, thinking hard. If this was a lie, it was an elaborate one, but if it wasn’t…

“Answer the question,” Moneypenny said.

“Where’s the tape?” Q demanded.

“London.”

“Isn’t that convenient,” Moneypenny said, dropping words like poison.

“Eve, listen to me,” Bond said. “I need you to listen.”

“We’ve listened enough,” Moneypenny said. “I’m taking you back and it’ll be M’s turn.”

Bond took a step forward, arms still raised. Moneypenny’s arms went rigid.

“Enough,” Q said. “Bond, shut up. Eve, put that down. No one’s shooting anyone here.” For one moment, no one moved. Bond moved first, putting down his hands slowly. Moneypenny followed suit, though she didn’t look happy about that.

“I don’t want to open this until I’m sure we’re secure,” Q said, pocketing the flash drive. “Now, when is this alleged meeting meant to happen tomorrow?”

“You don’t seriously believe this farce, do you?” Moneypenny asked.

“No, I don’t,” Q said, “but if Kagero is telling the truth and we don’t assist, she’s as good as dead.”

“And if she isn’t?”

Q looked to Bond. “Then we have bigger problems.”

“I haven’t defected, Q,” Bond said, speaking softly.

“The only people who could know for sure are a dead agent, an art thief with motive to lie, and you,” Q replied. “Understand that we cannot believe you.”

Bond stared at Q, eyes hard. “Understood,” he said, posture stiff.

“You stand by the window,” Q said. “Not a word. Kagrero, other side. No one moves until Eve and I have made our decision.”

Bond obeyed without a word, as did Kagero. Her hands shook as she sat in the far corner, eyes wide as saucers.

“I don’t trust him,” Moneypenny said, eyes still fixed on Bond.

Q didn’t rise to the bait. “We need to call this in before we do anything,” he insisted. “If this is real, M needs to know about that tape before we can proceed.”

Moneypenny pointed with her chin. “Make the call,” she said.

Q scrambled for his mobile. He didn’t have very good signal, but it would have to do.

M answered on the first ring.

“Tell me something I want to hear,” M said.

“We’ve found 007 and the thief,” Q replied. Across the room, Kagero glared daggers. “We need you to send a team to 007’s flat. He’s claiming there’s a tape there left for him by your predecessor.”

“By—you’re joking,” M said.

“No. Get a team over there, please. It’s urgent.” Q hesitated, then added, “Send at least one double-0.”

“Has Bond…?”

Q hesitated. Bond stood stock-still in the window, jaw tight, fists clenched.

“I don’t think so,” Q replied, “but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.”

* * *

M called back a tense thirty minutes later.

“He’s telling the truth?” Moneypenny asked.

“So it seems. Go with the plan for now,” M instructed, “and check in with me after. Be _careful_ , you two.”

“Believe me now?” Bond murmured, tone resentful.

“Not farther than I can throw you,” Moneypenny shot back. “Why didn’t you bring this to his attention ages ago?”

Bond worked his jaw. “She said,” he gritted out, “to handle it quietly.”

“Pulling me into this hardly seems quiet,” Q said. When Bond didn’t respond, he continued, “You expected we would believe you.”

Bond’s silence was overwhelming. Q swallowed and felt absurdly guilty.

“Let’s get to it, then,” Moneypenny said, finally putting that revolver of hers away. “Kagero, you can come out of the corner. Bond, if it’s not too much trouble, watch the windows.”

“What do you think I’ve been doing?” he asked, indignant.

“Eve,” Q warned. “Thank you, 007, for your patience.” Bond bowed his head slightly, Q would have given anything to see his face. “Right,” Q said. “We need a plan.”

* * *

The next morning, alone in his own hotel room, Q found himself thumbing the flash drive. He was tempted—so tempted—to slide it into his laptop just to take a peek. It took everything he had to keep it out of the port, where it could do no damage.

Across the screen, camera footage danced and bounced. He thanked the stars for every single camera in Beijing; he doubted even a mouse could escape detection. He could see Kagero, proceeding along the decided route. Bond and Moneypenny followed along separate paths at a safe distance. They chatted idly over the line Q had set up—hardly the most secure he’d designed given he’d only had supplies for two people, but it would have to do for now. Three minutes to drop and counting down.

Q took a long drink of tea—ordered up, praise be to room service, just as Bond asked, “Still have eyes on us?”

“Of course,” Q replied. “I’ll tell you if I lose you.”

Bond didn’t respond; Q hadn’t expected him to say anything at all in the first place. Ever since they’d finalized their plans for the morning, Bond had been distant. He’d been on the verge of speaking to Q on several occasions but had seemingly thought better of it.

Q wasn’t hurt or distressed by this. Not in the slightest.

“Two blocks up. Plaza’s packed; you’ll need to fight your way through.”

“Surrounding buildings?” Moneypenny asked.

“High rise. Sniper risk,” Q replied. Moneypenny cursed, and Q clicked through the live camera footage to check the buildings. “There are too many windows, I can’t cover them all simultaneously.”

“Eve?” Bond asked.

“On it,” she replied.

“Oh, yes, because looking at them in person is going to help,” Q scoffed.

“Two pairs of eyes are better than one,” Moneypenny shot back.

“Less than a minute until she reaches the mark,” Q said. “Potential suspect—pale suit, dark hair, standing by the fountain. Another—dark suit, dark hair, with a hat.”

“I see one,” Bond said simply.

“There are way too many people,” Moneypenny said.

“Keep on target,” Q instructed. Something appeared in one of the cameras, and Q set his mug down. “Parade float.”

“What—oh, shit,” Moneypenny said. On screen, Bond took off running toward the float.

“Bond, you’ll draw too much attention—Bond,” Q said, voice steadily rising as Bond showed no signs of stopping.

“Q, I can’t see anything,” Moneypenny said. “I’ve lost both of them. There are too many—ugh. Watch it!”

Q’s eyes darted across the screen. An enormous dragon, painted and emblazoned, rolled across, blocking his view. Who’d ordered the parade, and when? Q had combed the web for anything that would interfere and had found nothing of the sort.

“I’ve lost Kagero,” he said. “I’ve—” Someone knocked at the hotel room door. “Who is it?” he called. He cursed himself, then repeated his question in Mandarin. The person on the other side spoke too quietly for Q to understand. “A moment, please,” Q said. “Now isn’t a good time.”

The doorknob jiggled. Screams and shouts of joy issued from the laptop speakers. The parade was in full swing. Of all of the times to have a damned celebration, this was not it.

“Hurry,” Q said. “Someone’s trying to get in, and if I—”

“Q, get out of there,” Bond said, voice tight and breathless.

“There’s nowhere to go,” Q said. “You’ll have to—shit.”

Q snapped the laptop shut, then popped it back open again. The person outside the door banged hard on it, throwing their entire weight against it as if to break it down. Q ran to the toilet and stuck the laptop under the sink. He started the immolation protocol and watched as everything disappeared. There were backups at his lab back in England, but for now…

Q switched the flash drive for another that was full of schematics. Nothing that would be terrific to lose, but nothing Earth-shattering. He held the false drive in one hand and stared, wide-eyed, as the door came crashing open.

* * *

Q came to in the backseat of a car as it ran over a pothole. Memories were slow to return to him—there was the drop, the parade, the hotel room, then being shoved into the back of a car—but as soon as they did, he was flailing, searching for purchase or anything that might help. He’d been taken, he’d been captured, surely they’d found the drive—

Hands, firm but gentle, pushed him back down. Q blinked blearily at the individual, his vision refusing to focus.

“You’re all right, we have you,” the person said. “He’s awake.”

It took Q a good few seconds to realize that that last comment hadn’t been directed at him. His vision cleared, and he asked, “Eve?”

“That’s right,” Moneypenny said. She leaned into the backseat of the vehicle to hold his hand. Q squeezed back, his gaze flickering over to the driver. Bond. Of course. “You’re safe, we got you back.”

“How…?” Q rasped. His ribs hurt, though no more so than if he’d had a particularly challenging day at the gym. “They beat down the door, got me into a van…”

“We got you back,” Moneypenny said firmly, eyes flickering over to Bond. Q noticed, as his vision sharpened further, that there were flecks of blood on his sleeves, and poorly wiped-off stains of it on the backs of his hands. Q sank back into the seat.

“Did you get the drive?” Q asked, checking his pockets. “They took the other one.”

“Other one?” Moneypenny asked. “We found the one behind the sink.”

“Good,” Q sighed. “That was the real one. They fell for it.” He closed his eyes, then regretted it as a wave of nausea came over him. Car sickness. Lovely.

“You planted a decoy drive?”

“Old prototype designs,” Q said, trying to force himself upright.

Moneypenny smiled and pulled Q up to get him vertical. “Clever boffin.”

Q adjusted his glasses, his head still swimming. He couldn’t determine how long he’d been out, only that there had been multiple attackers and not nearly enough time to seek shelter.

“Where’s Kagero?” Q asked, finally realizing they were missing someone.

Bond’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. That told Q all he needed to know.

“She,” Moneypenny started, but Bond cut in and said, “Not the time.”

Three words, and already Q was nervous: Bond’s voice was hoarse, as if he’d been screaming. He wondered if he’d cradled Kagero’s body close. He wondered if he’d cared for her. Q pushed the thought away. Not the time.

“After she went down we came back for you,” Moneypenny said. “We caught up with you, but the rest of them got away from us. We’re nearly out of the city now.”

“Where are we going?” Q asked.

“Back to headquarters.” Moneypenny’s tired smile finally slipped from her face. For the first time, Q noticed that she, too, had flecks of blood on her hands and sleeves. “M needs to know what happened here.”

Q was still mostly in the dark on that, but he said, “Maybe we shouldn’t go.”

“Q?” Moneypenny asked.

“They knew where I was,” Q said. “They know where we are.”

“And?” Moneypenny asked. “All the more reason to get out. We’ve been made, Q. You don’t stay in the field after you’ve been identified.”

“I’m still alive,” Q said. “Why?”

“There was no point to kill you,” Moneypenny replied, her voice rising at the end to suggest that perhaps she’d started to doubt her own logic.

“They wanted the flash drive,” Q said. “They took me _and_ the drive.”

“What are you going at?” Moneypenny asked. Q risked a glance at Bond, who offered nothing. He remained silent as if he were alone in the car. Only his grip on the steering wheel told Q that he was tense and furious.

“There are two possibilities,” Q started. He didn’t get to finish, for Bond slammed on the steering wheel, startling both Moneypenny and Q.

“Enough,” Bond said. “We’re going back.”

“You haven’t heard me out.”

“I’ve heard enough for one day. Involving the two of you was a mistake.”

Q grimaced, furious now. “What, because we tried to help you and everything went to shite? Hardly our fault.”

“Q’s right, we need to consider all possibilities—” Moneypenny interjected.

“No,” Bond said, voice firm and brooking no argument. “I’ll do it myself.”

“We’ll only be sent after you again if you leave,” Moneypenny reasoned. “Bond, I don’t know what’s going on with you but you need to listen.”

Bond jerked the wheel to one side, and the car skidded. Q ducked but soon realized that Bond had swung them out of the street to park the car. As soon as they were stopped, Bond swiveled in his seat to face the both of them.

“I’m listening,” he said, eyes steely. “Talk.”

Q glanced at Moneypenny and found her as wide-eyed as he was.

“Okay,” Q said, speaking slowly. Bond’s eyes might have bored holes into him. “There are two possibilities,” Q repeated. “Either whoever took the drive doesn’t know what’s on it, only that it’s valuable and that I might know what to do with it,” he said, “or they do know what’s on it and they needed me for something else.”

“And?” Bond snapped.

“Think,” Q said, enunciating sharply. He was just about done with Bond’s attitude. “The first option is improbable: someone angling only for profit wouldn’t have needed to kill Kagero, and the likelihood that there were two parties involved—this Blofeld and someone else—is small. That leaves the second, and the question of why I’m still alive.” Bond and Moneypenny were silent. “I was worth more alive than dead. The only ones who could come to that conclusion are people who need my skill set.”

“They know you’re the Quartermaster,” Bond murmured.

“If they know that, they’ll know where we’re headed,” Q said. “They saw you come for me, so they know the two of you are involved if they weren’t aware already. We’re more than made, we’re trapped.”

“We have to follow them,” Moneypenny concluded. “If we go back, they’ll be able to trace us and not the other way around.”

“No,” Bond said. “We’re not doing this.” He turned the key in the ignition. Q reached up to grab his hand to stop him, and Bond froze, other arm halfway across his body to wrench Q away from him.

“It’s too risky for the two of you,” Bond said flatly. “Call for an extraction team.”

“Excuse me?” Moneypenny asked, head whipping around to face him.

“You’re a secretary.”

“Field agent,” Moneypenny retaliated, “and lately not so different from you.”

A tense silence fell between the two of them. Q looked back and forth, the bloodstains telling more of the story than words ever could.

“We’re going to get to the bottom of this,” Moneypenny said. “He needs a laptop and a mobile, I need a gun, and you need to pull yourself together.”

Bond sighed. “Q?” he asked.

“Don’t look to me for help,” he said. “I could have died in that hotel room. I’d like to know why.”

“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take again,” Bond said.

“Then don’t,” Moneypenny said finally. “We stick together. No long distances.” Bond’s head snapped to one side to look at her, too. “You said if you go back you’ll just continue this on your own. We’ll just come after you. Short of a direct order, we’re not leaving.”

“Not leaving,” Q agreed, “and I second the motion for a laptop. I want to find out what’s on that drive sooner rather than later. Whatever they’re looking for, it’s nothing so mundane as personnel files.”

* * *

They moved as a team. Bond knew Beijing the best; he found Q a laptop and a bagful of weaponry of dubious origins.

“Really?” Q asked, picking up one of the pieces with distaste. “Nothing explosive?”

Bond snorted. “Bottom of the bag,” he said.

“Oh, naturally, you put the things that are most sensitive to pressure in the bottom,” Q groused, sure Bond was joking. He wasn’t, much to Q’s consternation. “Sometimes I wonder how you’re still alive,” he said with a sigh. Bond offered no response, but he did smile, just a little bit. That counted for something.

They booked themselves a single hotel room and swept it thrice, keeping a steady eye over their backs as they did so. Q, for his part, did his best to keep his terror masked. This wasn’t what he did, but it was what he was doing now. He told himself that over and over hoping it might make him feel a little less like he might perish at any second. It didn’t help, but the way Bond and Moneypenny both kept him close and sandwiched between them did.

The doors and windows to the tiny room locked, Moneypenny watched the window carefully for any signs of a sniper whilst Q booted up the laptop. Bond helped him read a handful of the commands until he figured how how to switched the language to English.

“I am sorry, you know,” Q murmured, careful to keep his voice down. He fingered the drive that had caused all of this trouble.

“For what?” Bond asked.

“Kagero. I know you cared for her.”

Bond didn’t respond immediately, and Q took that to mean that he’d overstepped.

“Better her than you,” Bond said, stepping away. Q’s eyes immediately shot up, but Bond was moving away towards the window.

“See something?” Moneypenny asked. 

Bond shook his head. “I assumed I was the window-watcher,” he said by way of explanation.

As soon as the laptop had booted, Q disconnected it from the internet and slid the drive into one of the side ports.

“Password protected,” Q said. He frowned at the screen, then asked, “Eve, do you still have your mobile?”

“I do,” Moneypenny said, coming to his side. “Here.”

“Thank you,” Q said. He plugged the mobile into the laptop and set about undoing the encryption parameters.

“You can use the mobile to get into the drive?” Moneypenny asked.

Q nodded. “Company mobiles all have a few programs of my own design built in,” he said, tapping the screen, “just in case. It’ll take a few minutes but it’ll get the job done.” Q adjusted his glasses and let the program do its task. He’d no sooner sat back, sure he could afford to rest his eyes for a few moments, before the laptop beeped at him.

“Finished already?” he asked, as if the laptop could answer. “What?”

“Something the matter?” Bond asked from the window.

“Maybe,” Q said. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he uncovered the password. He paled. “Oh.”

“Oh?” Moneypenny asked. She leaned across him to get a better look, eyes going wide. “Oh.”

“What?” Bond demanded.

“The password is maxdenbigh,” Q said.

“Who?”

“Fellow from MI5,” Moneypenny explained. “He turned up dead two months ago, suspected suicide.”

“What’s his name doing as the password?” Bond asked, never once tearing his eyes from the window.

“That’s what I want to know,” Q murmured. He unplugged Moneypenny’s mobile and pushed the laptop at her. “Files are unlocked. See what’s there.”

“What are you doing?” Moneypenny asked, taking the laptop.

“Accessing MI6 servers to see what Denbigh was up to before he died,” Q said. “It’s one thing if this is a red herring, but if it’s not…”

Q didn’t need to finish the thought. He folded his legs under him into the already too-small chair and set to work about getting into the servers using his built-in backdoor.

“My neighbors are going to kill me,” he muttered.

“What?” Moneypenny asked, not looking away from the laptop screen.

“I just triggered the fire alarm in my building by remotely accessing a server from an unknown source,” Q replied. “M will know what it means, but in the meantime, it’s going to be loud.”

“Won’t it bother the cats?” Bond asked.

Q hesitated. “No,” he replied. “Tanner’s watching them for me.”

Bond snorted just as Moneypenny said, “You need to see this.”

“You need to see _this_ ,” Q said, tapping on the mobile’s screen to enlarge the image he’d come across.

“I need to watch the window,” Bond said, slightly sour.

“There’s a program on here titled 9 Eyes,” Moneypenny said, ignoring Bond. She scrolled as she read. “Enhanced global cybersecurity for a new era of technological advancement.”

“I haven’t heard about this,” Q said, peering at the screen over her shoulder. “ _Why_ haven’t I heard about this?”

“It’s not—it’s not live yet,” Moneypenny said, “but here: look.” Q leaned further over. “They’ve got a list of countries, leaders, cities, regions of population density…” Moneypenny trailed off. “Oh my God.”

Q found the point of the screen that Moneypenny had just reached. “Acceptable casualties,” Q said. “They’re planning hits.”

“Who?” Bond asked.

“I might have an answer to that,” Q said. “I just looked into Denbigh’s old files. As soon as he died someone came in, took over all of his projects, including a few in the private sector, and pushed them onto MI5. Say hello to Rufus Sadler.”

“That arse?” Moneypenny asked. “You’re joking.”

“One of the projects listed is 9 Eyes,” Q said. “If these two are the same—”

“Then Sadler’s preparing to make a series of global hits,” Moneypenny said. “Why, though? And how? They’d need Six’s support.”

“Where’s the information going?” Bond asked. Both Q and Moneypenny looked up to him. “If he’s going to all of this trouble to collect data, he’s going to want to do something with it.”

“Let me see if I can find out,” Moneypenny said. “It has to be here somewhere…” Q and Moneypenny searched the files.

“Oh, there,” Q said. “It’s a set of coordinates for all data files. Let’s see…” He input the coordinates and frowned at the results. “That can’t be right. That leads to the Sahara.”

“The desert?” Moneypenny asked. “I guess if you have something big to hide…”

“They’d need a massive infrastructure to handle that amount of information,” Q agreed. He sat back. “They’d need an equally massive staff as well. Okay. This isn’t good.”

Moneypenny snorted. “You’ve got that right.”

Q sighed and looked at Bond. “I think you might have been right,” he said. “We may need to go back to London.”

Bond looked ever so slightly over his shoulder. “Now?” he asked.

Q frowned and sat forward again. He felt jittery, but he didn’t have anything to fiddle with, so he drummed his fingers against his knees.

“M needs to be told about this,” he said. “He needs to _see_ it.”

Bond drummed his fingers against the glass. “Too risky,” he determined.

“You must be joking.”

“If Sadler’s involved, we’ll be ambushed as soon as we touch down on British soil,” Bond said. “Even if we’re not, we risk Blofeld’s people coming after us, assuming they’re not one and the same.”

“Bond?” Moneypenny asked. “What are you planning?”

Moneypenny’s mobile rang. The three of them looked to it as if it had combusted.

“It’s M,” Moneypenny said. She snatched the mobile off of the table. “Sir?” A pause, then Moneypenny handed the mobile to Q. “He wants to talk to you.”

Q accepted the mobile without hesitation. “Q,” he said.

“You’re needed back here,” M ordered.

Q blinked. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get myself on the next available plane.”

“See to it that you do,” M said. “M wants to speak with you.”

“ _What?_ ”

Across the line, M sighed. “Rufus Sadler,” he said, voice icy, “has convinced the board that I’m unfit to continue. He’s put both departments in crisis mode and is heading them both up simultaneously. He’s planning on launching some new security system within the week.”

“Christ,” Q cursed. “He’s going to launch 9 Eyes.”

“How do you know about this before I do?” M demanded.

Q offered a quick explanation. M remained resolutely silent throughout.

“Where’s Bond?” M asked at the end of it.

Q handed over the mobile and explained as he did so, “Sadler’s staged a coup. 9 Eyes is set to go live within the week.”

Bond snatched the mobile from Q’s hands. M spoke rapid-fire to him, and Bond nodded.

“Right,” he said, “I’ll do that.” He glanced at Q and Moneypenny. “I’ll tell them.” Another pause, then, “Yes, sir.”

Bond ended the call and tossed the mobile back to Moneypenny.

“Change of plans,” he said. “You’re to go back to London as soon as possible,” he said to Moneypenny. “M needs you to keep an eye on Sadler.”

“What about us?” Q asked.

“We’re sticking together and going to the facility. We determine if the threat is real and neutralize it if need be.”

“Neutralize—you do understand that I am not a field agent, correct?” Q asked. He adjusted his glasses, which he only now noticed were bent on one side and filthy. He’d have to fix them when he found a spare moment.

“No,” Bond said, “you’re the Quartermaster. 9 Eyes is a programme. You’ll dismantle what they have.”

Q sighed. “It’ll be suspicious if she returns and not me.”

“I lost you in Beijing,” Moneypenny said. “I assume that’s the story?”

“More or less,” Bond confirmed.

“I’ll take this with me,” Moneypenny said, ejecting the drive. “Even if I’m waylaid, if we can get a copy to M, we’re in good shape.”

“Agreed,” Bond said. “Take care, Eve.”

Moneypenny headed toward the door, shouldering her own bag.

“No,” Q said, “sit back down, this is insanity—”

But Moneypenny was gone, the door locking behind her.

Q slumped in his seat. “Wonderful,” he said. “Just spectacular.”

“It was necessary.”

“She’d have been more helpful to you in the desert than I will be,” Q groused. He looked at Bond, noting how he carefully didn’t meet Q’s eyes. “What’s wrong now?”

“Get some rest,” Bond advised, ignoring Q’s question. “You’ll need it.”

* * *

Q and Bond left Beijing with little in the way of fanfare. Moneypenny made no attempt to communicate with them, though Q figured that didn’t have to mean much of anything. They were following their orders. He couldn’t worry about anything else at the moment.

They flew to Morocco using falsified passports and credentials that Q managed to slap together, then boarded a train that would take them as close to the desired coordinates as they possibly could get. After that, they’d have to walk. Q dreaded every single instant.

All throughout the flight, Bond hardly interacted with Q. The artificial distance was awkward enough on the plane, but it grew maddening after they boarded the train in a shared car. The silence was the worst as they ate together, pointedly avoiding each other’s eyes.

“I can’t do this,” Q said finally, standing up. Bond looked up at him, the poor light of the car igniting the blue of his eyes. “If you want to give me the cold shoulder, that’s your business, but I’d get about as much out of facing a wall whilst eating.”

“Sit back down, Q,” Bond said. He sounded exhausted. Q did not sit, but he didn’t retreat, either. “Sit.”

Q, begrudgingly, sat.

“This isn’t about you,” Bond said, speaking softly as if concerned he’d be overheard.

“Isn’t it?” Q asked. “I almost die, you initially want me to leave, then you’re all for me going with you, and now you won’t talk. Forgive me for taking it personally.”

“I didn’t want you to leave,” Bond said. “I wanted to keep you safe.”

“Lovely. What’s this about, then?” Q demanded. “Didn’t get your way? Because whatever it is, it’s damned aggravating. That may be par for the course for you, you’ve truly outdone yourself this time.”

“I wanted you to be _safe_ ,” Bond insisted. Q stared at him. “You’re not a field agent, Q.”

Q could have combusted on the spot. “Throwing my words back at me, really? You’re something else.”

“Making and delivering weapons is your job,” Bond shot back. “Coming into the field isn’t part of the package. M shouldn’t have sent you out at all.”

“Like hell it isn’t.” Bond had no quick response. “If you don’t think I belong in your glorious _field_ , why involve me at all?” Again, Bond didn’t respond. “You sent Kagero to get me.”

“I did,” Bond said, speaking so softly Q thought he might have misheard. “I didn’t think I could protect you if you weren’t here.”

Q resisted the urge to slam his hand down on the table. “What, Moneypenny doesn’t get the same treatment?” Q sneered, unable to keep the cruelty out of his voice. “Kagero didn’t come for _her_.”

“I had a better reference for you.”

“Oh? And what might that be?” Q demanded.

“Don’t play coy.”

“What?”

“Skyfall,” Bond said, voice hurt and furious. “The camera.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Q said. “What camera? I didn’t give you a camera.”

After a moment, Bond realized, “You’re telling the truth.”

“Of course I am, you idiot. Why?”

Bond ducked his head as he took a deep breath. “I’m not sure you’d want to know,” he murmured. His gaze flickered over Q’s shoulder, and his expression abruptly changed. “Q, get down.”

“What—”

Bond pushed Q down hard, and not a moment too soon. There was a pair of arms just above Q’s head, and by the time he realized what was going on, the assailant had shoved Bond halfway across the dining car and into a tray.

Q swallowed. Not good. He looked to the assailant, who made a lunge for him. _Worse._

Q found himself tossed against the side of the train car before Bond could catch his attacker. In the brawl that followed, Q managed to flee back to their shared room. Bond was always armed, he’d be fine, but Q wasn’t. He quickly located the duffel bag Bond had brought and extracted a handgun.

“Don’t misfire, don’t misfire, don’t misfire,” Q murmured, praying to—something. The universe, most likely.

By the time Q returned to the dining car, Bond and the assailant had moved two cars down in the opposite direction. Q followed the trail of debris to where they were fighting, down in storage. Q hid himself as best as he could, trying to catch Bond’s eye and failing.

“Get out of the way,” he mumbled as Bond flung himself to one side to avoid a nasty right hook. There was a flurry of legs and then they were _both_ down on the ground, wrestling to get the other hand. Q took the safety off of the handgun and a deep breath to boot. Nice and easy, as if it were target practice.

They were up again, one door to the outside thrown open in the struggle. The assailant nearly tossed Bond out; Q’s heart hit his throat and he nearly pulled the trigger out of mere shock. Soon, though, Bond’s feet were back on the ground. Q couldn’t take it anymore: he took the shot.

It might not have been a lethal shot. It might even have been something the assailant could fight through. Momentum had other plans.

Q stared at the now-empty open door. One moment the assailant was there, the next…

Bond came to Q’s side, snatching the handgun from his hands. He cradled Q’s head in his hands after he set it aside. Q heard him as if through water, his eyes still fixed on the door.

“—look at me.”

“I…” Q started, unable to continue. It had gotten very, very cold on the train, likely because of the open door. That had to be it, that was all. 

Bond pulled him up and back through the compartments. People had cleared the area for the fight, disappearing as soon as fists began flying. If they peeked now, Q couldn’t see them. His teeth chattered and he felt as if he might freeze to death.

Bond got them back into their shared cabin and locked the door behind him.

“They’ll kick us off,” Q said finally. It was the only thought in his head, that they’d caused enough of a disturbance—a man was dead _, a man was dead_. Q couldn’t think past it.

Bond knelt in front of him and pulled every blanket he could around Q.

“I’ve got you,” Bond said. 

Q shut his eyes. Bond’s hands were warm on his shoulders and arms. He leaned forward, pressing his weight into Bond, his glasses digging uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose.

“Tell me it’s not like that every time,” Q said, voice shaky.

“It isn’t,” Bond said. Q wanted to believe him.

They remained that way for hours, well past sun-up, Q’s head on Bond’s shoulder, Bond’s arms around Q’s waist.

* * *

“I’m glad it’s you.”

Q turned to Bond, confused. Those were the first words Bond had said since—probably since the fight in the train, Q supposed. Now, they stood on a sand-swept platform in the middle of nowhere with little in the way of shade and no sense of where to go next.

“With me,” Bond clarified.

Q nodded once, looked away. _He_ wasn’t glad he was the one with Bond. He was a liability, not an asset.

That didn’t seem to be what Bond wanted to hear, so Q held his head high and stared across the desert. He didn’t even know where to _begin_.

“Shall we?” Q asked.

“Wait,” Bond said.

“What?” Bond gestured to the horizon. “What do you see?”

Bond didn’t elaborate, so Q waited. Eventually, he noticed the dust cloud rising from the general direction Q supposed they were meant to be heading. It was a car, Q saw, making incredibly good time across difficult terrain.

“That’s not good,” Q said. Bond shook his head.

“Stay close.”

* * *

The car stopped just off of the edge of the platform. The driver said not a word, though he opened both of the rear passenger doors in silent invitation. Bond got in first, motioning for Q to follow.

With the doors safely shut and locked, the driver sped back off from whence he’d come. He gave no indication as to where they were going or why, only that he intended to get them there in a hurry, and that Q only inferred from the speedometer. He looked back and forth between the driver and Bond, wondering if Bond would do something, _anything_ , to take control of this situation. Bond merely sat back, staring out the window. Q couldn’t even pretend to approach such a level of comfort. It felt too surreal, as if he were making himself a comforting, regular cup of tea before he was to be executed.

Not long after the train stop passed entirely out of sight, a series of solar panels appeared, line after line of black rectangles soaking in the sun. Up beyond them was a behemoth of a complex, squat but wide and vast. Q guessed most of it to be subterranean, which only made him more concerned.

Beside him, Bond found his hand and squeezed it. Q squeezed back and did not let go.

When the car rolled to a stop in front of the facility, a quartet of men stood waiting in the sun to greet them. Q squinted against the sun, hardly able to see for the glare. He and Bond were both patted down, and then Q found himself quite suddenly holding a glass of champagne.

“You’re joking,” Q said finally. He glanced at Bond, who took a sip with a polite smile. Q resisted the urge to smash the flute against the concrete.

“This way,” one of the men said. One came up beside Q, holding him by the elbow as if he were a wayward child. The other two flanked Bond.

“No,” Q said, as soon as they were led inside and it became clear that he and Bond were heading in separate directions. “No.” As Bond was led away, he made no move to fight. He took a sip of his champagne, content as ever, and followed like a docile little lamb.

“This way,” the man at Q’s elbow insisted. He tugged, and Q understood quickly that his escort could easily overpower him. He was pulled along until he could only hear his own footsteps and those of his own guard. Bond was as good as gone.

The guard stopped in front of one of a number of doors and turned a key in the lock. He pushed it open, then beckoned for Q to enter.

“Someone will be along,” the man said. He closed the door, and Q heard it lock from the outside. He tested the door handle and found that he couldn’t get out.

“So much for hospitality,” he muttered. His hands were shaking again. He set the untouched drink aside to take in the room.

Standard full bed, several blankets, two pillows, a dresser. There was something in there, and Q moved to look. He pulled out a suit—ironed, tailored, and—

Q swallowed.

That was his _name_. That was his _real name_ , written with an elegant cursive flourish on a piece of paper that had been impaled on the hangar.

Q spun around, looking in every nook of the room. No cameras that he could see, but that didn’t have to mean anything. He checked under the bed, only to find that it was flush with the floor. All of the furnishings were bolted in place. Pushing on the walls gave no results. There wasn’t even a single loose floorboard.

Q began to panic in earnest. He couldn’t take his eyes off of that scrap of paper for long. It taunted him, the black ink swirling and curving precisely to spell out something he’d kept hidden for years.

There came a knock at the door. Q nearly screamed.

“May I come in?” a voice—male, British, unfamiliar—called. Q couldn’t identify it clearly enough through the door. He made no response, and after perhaps fifteen solid seconds of silence, during which Q nearly believed his visitor had left, the exterior lock was removed and the door swung open.

Q’s blood froze completely.

“Hello again,” Rufus Sadler said, smiling sincerely. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

* * *

Q found himself backed into the room as Sadler entered, closing the door behind him. Q listened for a lock and heard none. If he made a break for it…he’d probably run headfirst into security where he’d be overpowered and hauled back inside. Not an option. There was no other way out, though. He’d already checked the windows and found them sealed. He was well and truly trapped.

“I’ll admit,” Sadler said, “I was expecting to see you in London. I did ask for you specifically. Eve was a darling replacement, if not who I wanted.”

“Where is she?” Q demanded, heart beating too fast.

Sadler shook his head. “She’s fine, she’s fine,” he said, drawing out the vowels theatrically. “You could help keep her that way.”

Q swallowed. He was pressed back against the far wall. From the middle of the room, Sadler surveyed the surroundings with his arms crossed. The dresser caught his eye, and he moved to run one hand over the smooth wood.

“I thought you might have put it on,” Sadler said, looking at the suit. “He’ll be disappointed that you didn’t.”

“What?” Q asked. “Who’ll be disappointed?”

Sadler offered the hangar to Q. “Put it on,” he ordered. Q shrank away, and Sadler waved it in front of him. “It’s a suit, not a deadman’s switch. Put the damn thing on or I’ll get someone else to do it for you. You won’t like that very much, especially not when they start in on Eve.”

Q accepted the hanger if only to see if he could use it as a weapon. It was too light, too flimsy. The suit, on the other hand, was of fine fabric. Q couldn’t see any label and supposed it to be tailored. His hands shook.

“Ah, the things men waste their time on,” Sadler murmured. Q’s eyes snapped up. When it became clear Q wasn’t getting undressed, Sadler snapped, “You’re not _my_ gift. Make it fast, we don’t have all day.” When Q made no response, Sadler said, “Oh, you’re a shy one, aren’t you? Would have thought you’d be into voyeurism or something with the company you keep.” Sadler sighed. “The things I do for business.”

Still, he turned around—not enough that Q could move without him seeing, but enough to pretend that Q could change with any degree of modesty.

Quickly, Q began undressing and assembling the suit. Each piece he as good as threw on. When it was down to the socks and shoes—also provided, Q saw—Sadler turned to see him.

“Can’t even dress itself,” Sadler muttered. “What a waste.”

Q held his head up, hurt and afraid.

“I wanted you dead, not paraded around like a prize pooch,” Sadler said. He straightened Q’s jacket and slapped Q across the cheek before Q could get his hands up to attack. “Don’t even think about it. You’ve made me change my plans once; you do it again and I’ll have your head.”

“It sounds like you need to learn to be more flexible,” Q said, speaking through clenched teeth.

Sadler’s smile finally disappeared altogether. “Careful,” he said, an edge to his voice. “Eve’s counting on you.”

Q stood up straight and said not a word more.

“Better,” Sadler said. He sat primly on the edge of the bed and clasped his hands around one knee. “Now that you’re _dressed_ , you and I have much to discuss.”

“Do we,” Q said. He kept his voice flat to keep it from shaking.

“We do,” Sadler confirmed. “Eve, and now your, ah _partner_ ,” Sadler said, coughing lightly, “ought to be the appropriate incentive to secure your cooperation, wouldn’t you say?”

Q pursed his lips, confused but unwilling to admit it. What was Sadler on about?

“We want you to be happy while in our service,” Sadler said, “so Eve will be the first cost of insubordination. Further transgressions will result in the loss of James, and beyond that, yourself. Do I make myself clear?”

_No_ , Q wanted to say, _you’re not_.

Instead, Q asked, “What is it you want?”

Sadler’s smile returned in full force. “Just a few things,” he said smoothly, all business. “We’ll need the full support of Q Division for the launch, but in the meantime we need your help reassembling the code. You have seen it, haven’t you?”

“Seen what?” Q asked finally.

Sadler looked faintly scandalized. “Why, 9 Eyes, of course.”

“9 Eyes,” Q repeated, if only to buy time. That had been the application on the drive—Moneypenny had had it, so of course Sadler had it back if he had her.

“Your _friend_ ,” Sadler said, picking lint off of his suit, “managed to wipe about a quarter of the code. Not the crucial aspects, but it is important that it be fully functional for launch.”

“No,” Q said.

“No?” Sadler asked.

“You mean to open surveillance channels across the globe. Why?”

“Why not?” Sadler asked.

“That’s not an answer.”

Sadler took his time answering. “I don’t think you fully understand your position,” he said slowly. “I have your friend and your significant other in my custody. I make a call, they’re both dead.” He smiled tightly. “You’re not in a position to ask questions.”

“Because you have Eve and Bond,” Q said.

“Yes,” Sadler responded. He arched a brow. “Did you think we couldn’t get them? To be honest, I was a little disappointed—in him. She put up a damn good fight, took out two of my best. He was by far the easier to get.” Sadler extracted something from his coat pocket—a small book, one Q had seen many times before. “This remind you of anything?” Q watched as Sadler flipped through the pages. “I’ll admit, for an assassin he’s not a terrible artist. It’s a shame his talents are wasted as a contract killer. But perhaps his talents are limited only to rendering you.”

Q tilted his head, utterly confused. Sadler caught sight of his expression and laughed. It wasn’t a false laugh, or a forced one, but a full, deep, rich laugh, one that set Q’s hair on end.

“Oh,” Sadler said, struggling to breathe, “oh, this is too—you didn’t—” He couldn’t finish for his own laughter. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?” Q asked, a cold, sinking feeling in his gut.

Sadler turned the sketchbook around. There was Q, looking down at something; there was another of him in profile, another that depicted him down to his waist, dressed in a suit—the very one he’d worn to dinner that night so long ago, Q remembered. The night he’d done his best to forget. Page after page after page, all of Q. He leaned heavily against the wall, eyes transfixed on the flashing pages.

“You should have seen his face,” Sadler said. “He caved so quickly when Ernst told him our plans for you. We embellished a few details, of course. He came along so nicely.” Q’s indignation must have shown because Sadler continued, “Oh, don’t worry, we’re taking him seriously. He can’t do too much damage while you’re here, though. He likes you too much to do anything that would hurt you.”

Q stood stock still, suddenly freezing. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening, this wasn’t…

“Now,” Sadler said, “be a good little boffin and come along. We’ve work to do.”

* * *

Q found himself led through the massive complex, down hallways with clear ceilings and at least one enormous stone pavilion with a fountain bubbling merrily in the center. He didn’t see another soul, never mind that it was at least half the size of headquarters back in London. Where were the employees, or whoever managed this place?

“This way,” Sadler said, entirely unnecessarily. He led Q by the arm, gripping a little too hard, until Q was sure that they had to be at least _close_ to the end of the facility.

Eventually, the well-lit, open spaces gave way to narrower ones with closed ceilings. Q had no definitive proof, but he felt as though they were traveling downward, perhaps even in circles. Sadler said nothing, and without the sun to tell, Q was as good as lost.

At long last, Sadler came to a door. He flipped his arm in front of a sensor along the side—keyed to his cufflinks, perhaps, or maybe a biosensor—and they slid open. Sunlight momentarily blinded Q, and when he could see again, he nearly wished he couldn’t.

There was Bond, eyes closed, strapped to something that might have come out of a science fiction film. His hands were crossed over his chest as if he were in a straightjacket. Just a few meters from him was Moneypenny, strapped to a similar device, looking far worse for wear. Her left arm was bound the same as Bond’s, buther right arm bent at an unnatural angle across her torso, free but unmoving. One of her eyes was swollen shut. Between the two of them sat an older fellow with a cat on his lap.

“Rufus,” the man said, accent thick, “I was beginning to worry you’d lost your way.”

“Not yet,” Sadler said, all smiles. “Dear boy, this is Ernst Blofeld.”

“Charmed,” Q said, voice acrid.

Blofeld laughed, startling the cat. 

“My dear boy, at long last!” he said. “The crown jewel of the triptych, here at last. Oh, I’ve longed for this moment. Come in, come in.”

Q swallowed and willed himself into silence. He looked to Bond, then to Moneypenny. Moneypenny seemed awake, but Bond appeared to be out cold.

“Sit,” Sadler instructed, pushing Q further into the room. He sat Q down at a small table, his back to Blofeld, and placed a laptop in front of him. On it was code that Q could make sense of but which otherwise was unknown to him. “Fix it.”

“I don’t know how,” Q said, keeping his voice as blank as possible.

Sadler’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “Listen to me,” Sadler whispered. “I don’t need to remind you that your _friends_ are here. They’re counting on you.”

Q didn’t need him to complete the thought. He placed his hands on the keyboard and set about scrolling through the code. It was easy to see where Moneypenny had started in on it; sections referenced elsewhere were absent, and a great deal of the syntax had been ruined.

“This will take hours,” Q said honestly. “Days, even.”

“It is good,” Blofeld said, “that we have time. Take all of the time you need.”

“Ernst, launch is in less than a week,” Sadler protested.

“Perfection cannot be rushed,” Blofeld said. “Please, my boy, whenever you’re ready.”

Q took a deep breath. He could do this—not fix 9 Eyes, not on anyone’s life—but he could get them out. All he needed was a plan, and some time. Blofeld had offered him time.

Q stood, picking up the chair as he did so. Sadler made to stop him, but Q put up one hand in surrender and made a show of dragging the chair across the floor. He brought it to the other side of the table and sat back down.

_Better_ , Q thought. He had a view of both Moneypenny and Bond, with Blofeld eclipsed by the screen.

The sound had Bond’s eyes fluttering open.

“Awake, Mr. Bond?” Blofeld asked. Q deleted an incomplete line and set about recopying it, guessing at what might come next, as Blofeld took hold of one of Bond’s hands. He shook it, and Bond’s sleeve rode up.

Q took a deep breath and willed himself to look away. That was it, that was their out—Bond still had that watch, the one from Geneva.

“Funny how these things work,” Q said aloud.

“Oh?” Blofeld asked just as Sadler said, “Shut up.”

Q’s eyes darted up in time to see Sadler looking to Blofeld, presumably exchanging dirty looks.

“Continue,” Blofeld ordered.

“It never fails to amaze me how the smallest things can be the most powerful,” Q continued. He kept his gaze trained on the right edge of the screen. Bond was looking at him now, he was sure of it. He just hoped that Bond was _listening_ and coming up with the holes in his plan. The room was small, and none of them had much room to maneuver. It was risky, risky… “There’s power in guns, but you can do so much with something as simple as a code—watches and pens and the like, too.”

“Programmed smartwatches are the surveillance tools of the future,” Blofeld boomed.

“We trained the original 9 Eyes code to do precisely that,” Sadler interrupted. “You’ll see that’s part of the code still extant.”

“Rufus, sit _down_. I want to hear him speak.” To Q, he said, “Tell me about the pens. I’ve always wondered if they really made them like in the films.”

“We do,” Q said blithely as Sadler walked across the room, sulking. He plopped down in a chair by the far window and pulled out his mobile. “Exploding ones, mostly, though we’ve moved onto other prototypes. It’s a rare gentleman that carries a suitable pen in public nowadays.”

Q winced at his own affected tone, but Blofeld merely laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, Q saw Bond staring at him. He had shifted ever so slightly to cradle the watch.

“007 there has been badgering me for an exploding pen like they made in the old days,” Q said, “but I told him no. There’s no interface—like something you can twist to enter a code to detonate it. The accidental explosion rate was enormous.”

“I see,” Blofeld said. Q shifted the computer screen so that it obscured Moneypenny rather than Blofeld. Bond already had the message, now Q had to make sure he had Blofeld’s undivided attention. “I imagine there was just a button?”

“Precisely,” Q said. “A modified grenade of sorts. I’ve been working on explosions that have a twisting mechanism—enter a certain code dependent on the agent, something that would be difficult to do by accident, then toss. Boom.” Q caught Bond’s eyes just in time—the agent was shaking his head. Q froze, momentarily at loss. The intended sentiment— _no_ —sat in Q’s stomach like a stone.

It occurred to him then, and only then, that Bond had no way of tossing the damn thing. His hands were strapped down, and the room was too small. Q wanted to hit himself for how stupid he’d been.

_You’re not a field agent_ , Q reminded himself. The words, intended to reassure him, only made him feel worse. This was his mess, and the solution he’d come up with wasn’t practical or even workable. How often had that happened before. How many agents had died because Q gave terrible advice? Was this why Bond never listened to him?

“Are you quite all right?” Blofeld asked, kindly. Q managed to make a single sound—a sigh more than any word—and Blofeld said, “A glass of water, perhaps? Or would you like a walk?”

“He’s not a bloody _pet_ ,” Sadler snapped from across the room.

Blofeld’s expression morphed in less than a second. He stood, his cat scampering off toward Q’s side. Sadler paled but didn’t back down.

“Get out,” Blofeld said, pointing toward the door. He gripped his seat with the other hand.

“You don’t get to decide—”

“ _Out_ ,” Blofeld shouted. There was a crack, incredibly loud, and then silence. Q was at a loss, and it seemed Sadler felt much the same. Carefully, Blofeld released his grip on his chair. The wood backing had broken down the middle, though the chair yet appeared stable. Q swallowed. Strong. Right.

Sadler stood up, pocketing his mobile, and headed straight out the door without another word.

Blofeld sighed, eyeing the chair. “Shame,” he said. He looked to Q. “My apologies, my boy. I’ve startled you.” Q didn’t trust himself to speak. As Blofeld took a step towards him, Q instinctively leaned back. Moneypenny thrashed and Bond strained against his bonds, and Blofeld froze.

“Ah,” he said, smiling apologetically, “no, no, I’m not going to hurt him—or any of you, for that matter, unless I absolutely must.”

There—that might buy some time for Q to come up with another, better, _workable_ plan.

“You won’t?” Q asked, voice shaking.

“Oh, of course not,” Blofeld replied, keeping a careful distance. “I would lose you.”

Q froze, his ears ringing.

“Of course, they have value by themselves,” Blofeld said, gesturing between Moneypenny and Bond. “A true triptych, nearly classical in theme.”

“I don’t follow,” Q said, feeling helpless. Everything had spiraled so far out of his control, he couldn’t even pretend to type. He closed the laptop, stricken, and listened.

“Three boons,” Blofeld said holding up three fingers. “Strength, tenacity, and intelligence.” He pointed to Bond, Moneypenny, and Q in turn. “Or, past, present, and future. The Fates, deposited squarely in my lap. I would not give any of you up for the world.”

Q’s jaw worked but no sound emerged. Insane, this was—

“You caught my eye first,” Blofeld said, nodding at Q. “My men reported that there was the most beautiful foreigner in Kagero’s gallery. I had to know more! But then I found you were far more than a beautiful face—your plan was exquisite.” Blofeld looked as if he hoped Q would thank him for the compliments. Q didn’t think he could so much as stand if he’d been told he had to. “I’ll admit, I moved too quickly—I ought to have waited until you returned to London, but I was excited. I wanted to have you here sooner.

“But, as you know, I failed. Your friends intercepted my men. I hadn’t understood why you valued them so much until I saw them with my own two eyes,” Blofeld said, gesturing at his own face. “Such brute strength your man has! Such skill! I’ll admit, I shook. And your woman—even in the face of many attackers, she fights like a demon! Incredible. I’ve never seen anything like any of you. I decided then and there that I needed the set.

“I thought you would yet return to London. When I was gifted only one of three,” Blofeld said, looking to Moneypenny, “you can imagine my distress.” He paused, then continued, “Thankfully, Rufus has his uses, even if he does go around my back more than I’d like. Ignore him as you see fit; he is a tool, nothing more.”

“You tried to have us killed,” Bond said. Q looked to him immediately, startled by the sudden sound. Blofeld didn’t so much as flinch.

“On the train, yes,” Blofeld said. “An accident, and one I regret immensely. You see, that was one of Rufus’ men. He sees you as a distraction, and a costly one. He doesn’t understand art the way I do. I am a true connoisseur of beauty.”

Q wanted to be sick. “Beauty,” he repeated.

“Quite,” Blofeld confirmed, beaming. “My beautiful possessions, all in a row.”

Moneypenny groaned and fought harder, and Q quickly said, “Do you often let your art languish uncared for?”

Q might have smacked Blofeld and received the same look of indignation. “Of course not!” he exclaimed. “I value each and every one of my pieces. So much as a scratch is unforgivable.”

Q looked pointedly to Moneypenny. Blofeld paled.

“I’m afraid Lady Tenacity has been naughty,” Blofeld explained weakly. “I’m afraid she will attempt escape should I send for a doctor.”

Moneypenny figured where Q was going with this.

“I’ll cooperate,” she said, her voice rough and hoarse, far worse than Bond’s. “I won’t run. This hurts terribly.”

“Send for a doctor, please,” Q said. “She means so much to me, and without her…” Q pulled out what he hoped was his most heartbreaking expression.

Blofeld paled. “That won’t do,” he murmured. He reached into his pocket and fished out a mobile. A few words, and a doctor was on the way. “He’s one of our best,” Blofeld said kindly. “Please don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

“I won’t,” Moneypenny promised.

_Liar_ , Q thought fondly.

Blofeld turned to Q, expectant.

“Thank you,” Q said, the words acid on his tongue.

“You’re very welcome, my dear,” Blofeld replied, voice soft to match his expression. “Anything for you—such a good boy. Beautiful and smart. Rufus thought we’d have to break you, but you see beauty in our plan, too, don’t you? My clever boy.”

Q averted his eyes, both to maintain the illusion of submissiveness and because he physically could not stand to look at Blofeld any longer. His hand shook as he gingerly raised the laptop screen once more, the cursor blinking athim, that dreadful code staring him in the face.

“I don’t suppose I could see the doctor as well,” Bond said lightly. Q wanted to curse; if Bond blew this—

“Why of course, Mr. Bond,” Blofeld said, voice amicable. “Whatever is the matter?”

“Heartbreak,” Bond said. “Your companion stole something of mine—something precious.”

“Oh?” Blofeld asked.

“A sketchbook.”

Blofeld’s eyes went wide. “You draw?”

“I do,” Bond confirmed. Q’s fingers ran over the keys of the keyboard without depressing a single one.

“Well, I shall make every effort to return it to you. I may see it, I presume?”

“Sadler has it,” Q blurted.

“I beg your pardon?” Blofeld asked. The change in tone was slight but appreciable—mention of Sadler had him on edge, yet he spoke softer to Q than he did to Bond, as if he were calming a startled woodland creature. Q hated him.

“When Sadler brought me here,” Q said, “he had it with him. He used it as proof that he had 007 as a hostage.”

Blofeld’s expression went stormy. “He was to ensure your cooperation,” he said, “not threaten you.” His hands flexed, and Q’s eyes darted to that chair with the broken back. How strong was Blofeld? Was the force needed to snap wood enough for bone? The numbers deserted Q.

“He said that if I did not cooperate, she died,” Q said, gesturing to Moneypenny. “If I failed again, he would be next.”

Blofeld looked ready to combust, but at that moment, the door opened. Q, who was watching Blofeld, marveled at how much he looked like a deflating balloon. One second he was drawn up to his full height, eyes full of fire to put Ares to shame, the next he was small again, smiling insipidly and wringing his hands as the doctor entered.

_Dangerous_ , Q thought, shivering. _Very, very dangerous_.

“Doctor,” Blofeld said. “You’re newest charges.”

The doctor, a balding man with a very large case in one hand, approached Moneypenny’s bedside immediately and began undoing the straps that held her down. True to her promise, Moneypenny made no attempt to escape or fight. She lay, still and serene, until the doctor sat her up.

As soon as Q saw her, he had no problems understanding why. She had cuts all over her arms and chest, and he could see hastily wrapped bandaging over her abdomen when her shirt rode up. What little fight she’d put up earlier was likely all she had in her for the moment.

“Miss,” the doctor said, accent thick, “it is a pleasure to treat you. May I?” He lifted her arm, wincing as she did when it pained her. “I must see this under the x-ray,” the doctor said. He looked to Blofeld. “And him?”

“Full evaluation,” Blofeld ordered. “It seems my _associates_ did not give as much care as I wished. Take them down to the hospital levels.”

“Will we be going as well?” Q asked, a little too eagerly.

Blofeld shook his head. “Dear boy, you’ve seen enough misery for one day,” he said. “Come, you can work in my office. I’ve many paintings to show you, and we can get you warmed up. It’s a rare soul that shivers in the Sahara.”

Q swallowed and nodded. Not what he’d planned, but it would be all right. He caught Moneypenny’s eye, then Bond’s. Both were now released, and apparently cooperating. He hoped he conveyed as much as he needed to. Judging by the looks they shot each other, it was going to be fine.

Blofeld waited as Q closed the laptop and stood, straightening out his sleeves.

“This way,” Blofeld said, hooking an arm around Q’s waist, his hand resting in the small of Q’s back. Q took in a gasp that he kept quiet, though not quiet enough, judging by the small, triumphant look on Blofeld’s face. “Let us walk.”

* * *

Q didn’t recognize the path they took out of the room, but he was keenly aware of how the security that the doctor had brought up weren’t following him and Blofeld. Instead, they were left alone, and as the silence stretched onwards, Q found himself more and more nervous.

“You’re shaking more,” Blofeld observed, not unkindly. His hand hadn’t budged from Q’s back.

“I am afraid,” Q answered honestly.

Blofeld huffed. “It will pass,” he promised. “You’ll grow to appreciate this and all that we have.” Blofeld gestured widely with his free hand. “You’ll have the freedom to wander this facility, of course. There’s plenty to see.”

“All of it?” Q inquired.

“Naturally,” Blofeld replied. “The lower levels undoubtedly won’t interest you much, though I have heard how much you like to experiment. We have labs here. There’s plenty of development to be done, even setting 9 Eyes aside.”

“Why 9 Eyes?” Q asked.

“Why the name, or why the necessity?”

“The latter.”

“The world is a dangerous place,” Blofeld said, entirely unnecessarily. “Men and women like you and your friends are put in danger because madmen with a few sticks of dynamite and a crateful of guns decide that today is the day for their madness to reign. 9 Eyes will be the end of that—total surveillance. There will be no more attacks because we will see them coming. Perfect, beautiful peace.”

“And personal privacy?” Q asked.

“Gone. It is the price of civilization, you understand,” Blofeld said. “Of course, if you’re worried about your own modesty, be not afraid. You are my exception.”

“Sadler didn’t seem to think so,” Q muttered before he could think better of it.

Blofeld’s pace faltered for a moment. He held Q in place, silently demanding.

“He made me strip and put this suit on,” Q said, looking away. “He was adamant.”

Blofeld didn’t immediately response. “I’ll admit,” he said, his finger tracing a seam along the back up to Q’s neck, “that I am pleased to see you in it.” Blofeld’s hand rested heavy where it sat at the base of Q’s skull, fingers ever so close to his hair. Q felt his pulse in his throat. “He will pay for forcing you into it. I swear to you.”

All at once, the hand was at Q’s lower back, and they were moving once more.

“You will never lack for privacy, should you desire it,” Blofeld said, tone as easy as before.

“Me and the others,” Q said, somewhat pointedly, eager to move beyond what had just happened. _Distract him, you have to find a way to distract him…_

“Yes, of course,” Blofeld said. “Forgive me, my favouritism often gets the best of me.”

Q could think of no response. Thankfully, Blofeld proved more than happy to fill in the gaps in conversation.

“I moved my galleries here,” Blofeld said. “You know, Kagero wasn’t my only thief, though she was the only budding artist. There are a few others here and there. My collection is quite marvelous as a result. Paintings, mostly. Not nearly so many sculptures. There are few that match my tastes.”

“I was never partial to sculpture myself,” Q admitted.

“Oh?”

“I appreciate art, though I’ve never collected.”

“My dear boy, my collection is yours,” Blofeld said, moving his hand a little higher, rubbing circles into his back. “I ask only that you stay.”

“Of course,” Q said, keeping his eyes low. He wanted to be sick, cry, run, and scream all at the same time. Instead, he focused on his breathing, keeping one foot in front of the other. It would be over soon; Moneypenny and Bond would pull through and they could get _out_.

“Here,” Blofeld said. “My office. I’ll fix you a nice cup of tea. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Q didn’t have time to conjure a response. Blofeld pushed open a heavy wooden door, something more suited to a 19 th century study than an ultramodern hub in the middle of the desert. In that second in which the door opened, Q felt as though he’d been bombarded on all sides by sound. 

His first instinct was to hit the floor, thinking an earthquake had hit, or a lightning had struck, or _something_. The laptop slipped out of his hands and cracked against the floor. The entire facility seemed to shake, and Q’s ears rang.

Distantly, seconds later, hunched down on the floor, Q realized: Bond had to have activated the watch.

Several moments after, Q looked to his side: there was Blofeld, laying on the ground. Q frowned, confused, eyes fixed on that face before he looked across Blofeld’s body.

Six gunshot wounds, each bleeding steadily. Q had to tear his eyes away from the body to look into the study.

“I’ve been dying to do that for weeks now,” Sadler said, tilting a revolver up to admire the barrel. “Bastard had it coming.”

Blofeld huffed, and the sound—so jarring in the silence—drew Q’s attention like the gunfire that came before it.

“You think,” Blofeld rasped, staring at the ceiling, “you can kill _me_?”

Sadler snorted and set the revolver on Blofeld’s desk. Q knew he ought to run while he still could, but he was fixed in place, trembling like a leaf in the breeze. _Shock_ , Q thought. _This is shock_.

“You’re human,” Sadler said. “You’ll die soon. Your little _art project_ isn’t trying to save you.”

Blofeld looked to Q, eyes glassy. Q scrambled backwards and knocked against the door.

“So lovely,” Blofeld murmured. “Even when afraid…”

“Oh, save it,” Sadler called from the office. Q heard a drawer opening as Sadler rummaged around for something. “You’re not getting in the way of _my_ project any more.”

“Your project?” Blofeld said, head rolling weakly. “9 Eyes is _mine_.”

“You _dare_ —”

“Be _silent_ —”

As they argued, Q made to stand, he wobbled, fell, and then got his legs under him. No sooner than he did than Sadler’s voice abruptly dropped out of the conversation.

“No, no, no,” Sadler said. “Turn around, you’ll see why that’s a bad idea.”

Q risked a look into the office. Sadler had a second revolver aimed at his head.

“Think carefully,” Sadler said sweetly, a mockery of Blofeld’s earlier tone. “You don’t want to get _hurt_ , do you?”

Q couldn’t keep still. The impulse to run was too strong, so he followed it. He turned his back, leaping forward down the corridor.

The shot caught him in the back—lower than Sadler had been aiming, and off to the right. Q fell forward with the momentum, screaming at long last. It _hurt_ terribly, like nothing else Q had ever felt before. He landed flat on his face without the strength to catch himself. His glasses snapped, and the frame dug into the bridge of his nose.

“What did I tell you,” Sadler said, or Q thought he did. He felt as though he were sinking down into a pool. Everything was cold and prickly and his breath came out in sharp punches that told him nothing good.

Q got his head up. Figures were coming up the hallway. Before Q could recognize Bond or Moneypenny, the two were exchanging gunfire with Sadler.

It was over not long after it began. Moneypenny limped to Q’s side first. Her broken arm was in a sling, bandaged neatly and with care. Bond came rocketing after her, face sweaty and hands bloody. He looked to Q, then careened past him, presumably heading for the office.

Q heard a laugh from behind him, one that didn’t belong to Bond. Moneypenny’s eyes were on the source immediately, though Q couldn’t move.

“I might have expected it,” Blofeld rasped from behind Q. Not Sadler. “Such lovely lifeforms couldn’t be contained, couldn’t…”

Blofeld trailed off. Moneypenny spat in his direction.

“That’s the last he objectifies us,” she said. To Bond she added, “I can’t carry him.”

Q found himself hoisted up in two strong arms from behind and he yelped at the change in angle.

“I’ve got you,” Bond murmured. “I’ve got you, we’re safe, we’re going to get out…”

“9 Eyes,” Q said. “Need to…”

“We called M from the medical ward,” Moneypenny said. “A team’s on the way to sweep the facility.”

“But Sadler…”

“He tried to disband the double-0 section,” Moneypenny said. “You can guess how they felt about that. M gathered them up when he didn’t hear from me. All he needed was the coordinates.”

Q’s head swam, and he found himself wondering what exactly would come next.

“Let’s move,” Bond said. “There’re bound to be more guards.”

“This way,” Moneypenny said.

Q drifted off, hurt and tired.

* * *

Q woke to a ship. Not just any ship—a bloody _big_ ship.

“What in the fuck,” Q groused, trying to sit up. He couldn’t feel his right shoulder at all, though a quick check told him it was still there. There was an IV in one of his arms, and his shoulder was bandaged. He blinked, woozy, as he looked forward yet again. The ship split into two, then merged back into one.

“Good morning,” Bond greeted cheerfully.

Q took in the scene. He himself was stuck in a hospital bed, rather chilly, and more than a little hungry. There, across the room, sat Bond in front of an enormous replica of _The Fighting Temeraire_. Bond himself was sketching, his little book propped in his lap, one leg crossed over his thigh.

“What in the _fuck_ ,” Q repeated. “Good morning?”

Bond smiled. “I’d check the time but I seem to have lost my watch.”

Q exhaled as loudly as he possibly could and allowed his head to fall back.

“Where’s Eve?” he asked.

“Next room over,” Bond replied. “Figured it was safer in here.”

“Safer?”

“She’s got an axe to grind,” Bond said. “I can’t say I blame her.”

“An axe…?” Q asked, confused.

“Not a literal one, though she likely has one of those somewhere as well,” Bond said smoothly. “They’re trying to force her into mandatory leave and she’s not having it.”

The door to Q’s room opened, and M stepped in. He leaned against it as soon as he was inside. Bond snorted.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“As well as could be expected,” M replied. “Good morning, Q. Glad you’re still with us.”

A dull _thud_ came from the next room over, just over Q’s head.

“Miss Moneypenny wishes to return to the field,” M said tightly.

“Is that all?” Bond asked, voice light.

“She’d like my head for not catching this sooner,” M continued, “but we’ll start with the requests that don’t involve decapitation.”

“Are you hiding in here as well?” Q asked. M looked guilty. “If you’re going to disrupt my rest you might as well fetch me a glass of water.”

Bond was across the room and out to get a glass before M could so much as move away from the door.

“Well,” M said. “Either he’s remembered he left the stove on or you’re about to get your wish.” Q laughed, then coughed. M’s expression turned carefully blank. “Not now, of course, but I’d like to hear your report of events since we last spoke.”

“Of course,” Q replied.

“Particularly, I’d like to know about Bond.” Q tilted his head, considering M carefully now. M hesitated, checking the door once. “His behavior has been odd since his return. I was hoping you could shed some light on his conduct.”

“Of course,” Q said slowly, just as the door opened. There was Bond, carrying not one, not two, but five glasses of water. He had two in each hand and one balanced atop his own head.

“How did you get it up there?” Q asked, eyeing that fifth cup. Peculiar behavior indeed.

“Practice,” Bond replied, setting the four down first before he removed the fifth. “Is that enough?”

“More than, thank you,” Q said, reaching for one. Bond guided it into his hand, lingering a little longer than was strictly proper.

M coughed. “007, a word.”

* * *

When Bond returned, Q had worked through two out of five of the cups of water and was feeling much, much better. Dr. Longwood, Chief of Medical was furious that Bond had brought _liquid water_ and not ice chips—“protocol exists for a _reason_ , 007, even if you choose to ignore it,” Longwood had snapped. Bond had been unrepentant, and Q had gotten to keep his cups.

“Why the painting?” Q asked when it was just him and Bond once more.

“You took me to see it,” Bond said, not looking up from his sketchbook.

“Am I the warship now?” Q asked, intending it as a joke.

Bond hesitated. “No,” he murmured. “You’re the sea.”

“The sea?”

Bond hummed. “Calm but ferocious,” Bond explained. “Capable of the impossible. Gorgeous, ever-changing.”

“Come again?” Q asked, sure he was mishearing. “If you’re poking fun—”

“I wouldn’t,” Bond said, looking up. He looked serious, the lines in his face all drawing down. “I wouldn’t.”

Q swallowed and averted his eyes.

“New sketchbook?” he asked, hoping for a change in topic.

“No,” Bond replied. “Sadler still had it on him. I took it back before we left.” So that’s where Bond had gone. “He showed it to you,” Bond said. It wasn’t a question, and Q was too tired to pretend otherwise.

“Yes,” Q replied. “He did.”

Bond said nothing for a long time, and Q figured he was meant to say something else.

“May I see them?” Q asked. “The sketches?”

Bond took a moment before he stood up, stretching. He approached Q’s bedside and gingerly handed him the sketchbook. The front and back covers were soft from use, and soot stuck to the edges of the pages.

Bond sat to the left of Q’s knees and opened the sketchbook for him to see. The earliest pages didn’t feature Q. There was Vauxhall and a handful of city streets; a few faces rendered seemingly without care. Each only appeared once and appeared more comical than anything else. The next bit was a foray into charcoal sketches, one of which Q suspected was a messy self-portrait. Another page seemed to have been covered top to bottom in black. From then out, it was all graphite and pen once more.

The first of the sketches of Q appeared on the eighth page, the first to have a date in the corner. It was Q in profile. His nose was too long and his jaw was too sharp, but it was unmistakably him.

“The day after we met in the gallery,” Bond said, speaking softly. “I drew you from memory while in Shanghai.”

The next page featured similar, smaller sketches. Q looking down at him, Q smiling, Q (interestingly) without a nose.

“I couldn’t get your features right,” Bond explained. He pointed to the many crossed out figures. Q ran a finger along the edge of one, the graphite smudging. Bond turned the page.

There was another large one, Q peering at something in the distance, just to the left of the viewer. The date was one Q could hardly forget.

“That night,” Bond said. “Before.”

_Before_. Before Silva reached Skyfall, before M died, _before_.

“I showed it to her,” Bond said—a confession. “She knew, then. I thought you did, too. I’d forgotten about the pin.”

“The pin?” Q asked.

Bond shook his head. “I grabbed a tie pin while you weren’t looking,” he said. “I forgot to turn the camera off while I was sketching.”

“Are you telling me that, somewhere, there’s footage of you drawing this,” Q said, “and I missed it?”

Bond nodded. “I thought you’d seen it,” he said. “When were were in Geneva, I thought…I thought you knew.”

Q swallowed, face flushed. If he’d known…

“Keep going,” Q instructed, too flustered to come up with anything else to say. Bond obediently flipped the pace. There was Q sitting in a number of different positions, all drawn while in Geneva: Q listening to a presentation, Q laughing, Q pouting, Q in his best, suit, eyes bright as he held a glass of wine. Then there was Q in Rome, bundled up in front of the Trevi Fountain, waiting. Page after page, all of Q.

“This was the one I showed Kagero,” Bond said, tapping one of the latest. It was the stiffest of the sketches—Q looking straight forward, expression blank. It was the only sketch on that particular page, and it stuck out in style because of how stark and flat it looked.

“She recognized me in the gallery because you showed her this,” Q said.

Bond nodded. “I drew it for her,” he said. “It wasn’t…”

“You wouldn’t show her the rest?” Q asked.

“No one else.”

Q flipped the page. There he was, leaning against the window in an airplane; on the way to Morocco, no doubt. There was Q on the train, Q sleeping. There, at the end, was a series of unfinished pictures. Bond had the outlines of Q, the basic shapes and features but had finished none of them.

“Bond—”

“You don’t have to,” Bond said, cutting him off. He snatched the sketchbook from Q’s lap. Q felt the missing weight of it as if he’d lost a limb after all. “Get some rest, Q.”

“Bond,” Q tried again, but Bond was gone. All that remained was the indentation in the blanket where Bond had sat and that painting up on the wall. Q stared at it as if he’d never seen it before, searching for answers he couldn’t find.

* * *

Q was released from Medical with a mandatory leave of absence and a reminder from M to assemble a report. Q ignored both and headed straight to his office, where he pulled up the feeds for the pinhole cameras he’d designed as tie pins. It had been his first project for Boothroyd, forgotten because the pins tended to slip down the tie and had proved too fragile.

One had been activated, just as Bond said. The dates lined up. It was a little work dredging up the files, but Q found it at long last. He skipped the endless hours of Bond driving and the initial arrival at Skyfall to look for the moment the sketchbook came out.

The footage had audio, though Q initially thought the feed had been damanged, for Bond drew in silence. Periodically, Q heard people walking in the background—M and Kincade, no doubt. When Bond had finished the bare bones of the sketch and was working on adding depth, M’s voice became much clearer.

“I didn’t take you for an artist,” M said. Q hadn’t forgotten her voice, but to hear it again after years of absence shook him.

On the screen, Bond closed the sketchbook.

“Don’t stop on my account,” M said. Judging by the sounds of things, she’d settled herself down next to Bond. “Don’t be shy, let me see it.”

Her hand entered the frame, pulling back the cover. Bond opened the book to the page he’d been working on, and M stared for a few long moments.

“Enamoured of our Quartermaster, are you?” she teased. Bond visibly flinched, the camera slipping, but M patted his visible hand. “You could do much worse. He’s a good one, if a bit odd.”

“He likes art,” Bond said. Q jumped at his voice, so _close_. He turned down the volume, never mind that no one could see this. He was alone in his office.

“So you thought to woo him with it?” M asked. “Or have you picked up a new hobby because you’ve decided he’s too young?”

Q found he couldn’t look away from the camera. Bond’s hand splayed across the image of Q. He traced the bridge of his nose, up to his glasses and hair.

“It’s nothing,” Bond said.

_Lie_ , Q thought.

“Don’t lie to yourself, Bond,” M said. “It’s far from nothing.”

“Ma’am,” Bond said, getting ready to excuse himself.

“007,” M said, all business. Bond relaxed back into place, that sketchbook still open on his lap. “My husband proposed to me with a poem he’d written. Something about the sun in my eyes and the whorls of my fingertips. I know what this means. He’d appreciate it.”

“I think he already knows.”

Q had to stop the video. His heart was pounding and his chest ached. The pain medicine had worn off, but it was a welcome counterpoint to the heat in his cheeks. After a few seconds where he simply stared at the screen, at his own portrait, he turned off the monitor and located a jacket. He needed to call a cab.

* * *

Q’s destination was rather farther from home than he would have liked given the late hour. Tracking down the place took some time and left him feeling exhausted. If Bond didn’t let him stay the night, he didn’t know what he would do.

Bond’s listed flat was an expensive thing a few storeys up in a lovely building. Q climbed the stairs, breathing harder than usual, and came to Bond’s door suddenly wondering if he was home or not. If he wasn’t…Q didn’t want to think about it.

Q banged against the door and waited. No response. He hit it again. Nothing. He leaned his forehead against it, knocking with one hand and then the other.

“Open _up_ ,” Q muttered, banging into the wood. “Come on, Bond, just—”

The door fell inward, and Q fell with it. Bond stood, half-dressed and wild-haired, in the dark of the flat and caught him at just the last second. The curtains were drawn, but even in the dark Q could see the wreckage of the flat.

“Can I come in?” Q asked, feeling stupid, halfway to the floor, shoulder burning.

Bond let go of him and opened the door all of the way. Qnearly tripped over a liquor bottle, yet unopened, and collapsed onto the couch.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” Q said, feeling much better now that he was horizontal. “Spartan aesthetic?”

“What are you doing here?” Bond asked—not angrily, Q thought, just brusquely.

“I found that footage,” Q said. He looked to Bond.

“You…”

“She was right, you know,” Q said. “I like it a lot.”

“Do you,” Bond said, coming closer.

Q hummed. “I can’t find myself to be angry that you stole a prototype, either,” he said.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s my turn to let you not finish,” Q interrupted. “I’ll have you know that I thought you were mocking me with a pity date.”

“I wouldn’t,” Bond replied immediately. He sounded so sincere; Q wanted to believe him.

“Will you say it?” Q asked. “It’s one thing to draw it, but another to say it out loud.”

“I don’t know if I can if you don’t,” Bond replied. The honesty hit Q hard, and he closed his eyes.

“I don’t know if I love you,” Q answered honestly, “but I like you. I want to get to know you and see if I could.” He licked his lips. “I’ve lusted after people before, but this is new for me.”

“Does that mean I’m special?” Bond asked.

Q smiled. “Very,” he replied.

“I already know,” Bond said. He was on the other end of the couch, now, not looming over Q—Bond had left him plenty of space—but framing him in a delightful way. “I want you. I want to hold you close. I want to see you in the mornings when I wake and the evenings when I sleep. I want you to look at me like you are right now.” Q almost couldn’t breathe, he was so fixated on Bond’s own face. He imagined what he must look like—flushed, awe-struck, enamoured. He swallowed. “I want everything you’re willing to give me. If that’s not love, I’ve never known it.”

Q reached up to cup Bond’s face, speechless. Bond nuzzled his palm, his face warm in Q’s hand.

“I’d like to stay the night to start,” Q whispered, “if that’s all right.”

“Always,” Bond replied.

“You’ll be here in the morning?” Q asked.

“I will.” Bond nudged Q’s arm, and Q nodded. Bond lifted him off of the couch, taking care not to jostle him too much, and carried him to the next room. Darker than the last, Q couldn’t see anything at all, though he felt as he was deposited onto a bed.

“No furniture in your flat, but the softest of sheets on your bed,” Q said, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. “Why am I not surprised?”

Bond laughed. Q felt drunk on it. He kicked off his shoes and waited for the dip in the bed as Bond joined him. It didn’t come.

“Aren’t you going to rest, too?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me to,” Bond replied, somewhere across the room. “I’ll take the couch.”

Q snorted. “James Bond, get in this bed or so help me I’ll find you and drag you here myself.”

“Pushy,” Bond replied. There was the dip, and Bond’s hand on his waist. “I’d let you.”

“I’d be counting on it,” Q replied. He yawned into Bond’s face and reached for his glasses. “Do you have a table in here somewhere?

Bond found his hand, no doubt smudging the glasses, as if they needed more mistreatment, and deposited them somewhere behind him. He rolled back to face Q, close enough that Q could feel his breath.

“You’re sober,” Q noted.

“You caught me right before I opened the bottle,” Bond said.

“I’m glad. Means no take-backs in the morning,” Q said, yawning a second time. He felt and heard Bond do the same.

“I wouldn’t.”

“What would you do?”

“Make you breakfast,” Bond said. “Keep you warm.”

“Is that meant to be suggestive?” Q asked.

Bond snorted. “Rest, Q.” He pulled the covers from under Q so that they were above him instead, gathered in the crook of his neck.

“I think I love you,” Q said.

“You think?”

“Ask me in the morning. I’m at my worst then.”

“Does tea help?”

“Exponentially. So do kisses.”

“Do you get those regularly with breakfast?”

“No, but it’s a hypothesis.”

Q could feel Bond’s smile through the dark. “We can test it when you wake,” Bond said.

Q rolled over and pressed up against Bond, who held him close. He fell asleep like that, content and warm, thrilled and awed by the notion that the man behind him, someone powerful and dangerous and marvelous, could ever love someone like him.

* * *

In the morning, Q woke a chaste kiss to the forehead and the sweet smell of freshly cooked breakfast.

“Good morning,” Bond greeted. He had a mug of tea in one hand—not Earl Grey but a black blend that smelled divine nonetheless.

“I take it back,” Q said, blinking blearily. “I _know_ I love you.”

Bond kissed him firmly on the lips, and Q was more than happy to lose himself in it.


End file.
